A Slytherin Scarf

Draco Malfoy had returned.

Or so the rumours running wild in the Leaky Cauldron that Wednesday night claimed. No one had actually seen him, but Katie Bell, whose fiancé was distantly related to the Malfoys, insisted she had heard it from a very reliable source. No one doubted her, and the speculations flowed freely. It was, after all, too good a piece of gossip to pass up.

When Malfoy had disappeared a year and a half earlier, everyone had been too caught up in their own traumas in the aftermath of the war to really notice that he had quietly slipped away. But now, in the warm comfort of being among friends and knowing that there was nothing more serious than hangovers threatening them, a mystery was just what they needed to spice up their lives. And Malfoy was a mystery. No one knew why he had left or where he had been or what had made him decide to come back right now.

Harry didn't take part in the discussion, but he listened much more eagerly than he cared to admit, paying careful attention to every little detail.

"He had something to hide," Zacharias Smith was saying with that irritating certainty in his voice. "No, think about it," he insisted when people around him started voicing their scepticism. "It makes perfect sense. He was on You-Know-Who's side all along, and when the war ended he bolted. He's only returned now because he figures it's safe. No one's been hunting him so he thinks he got away with it."

"Oh please!" Millicent Bulstrode snorted. "Can we stop with the conspiracy theories already? Draco wasn't on You-Know-Who's side. I would have known."

"Yes, but you've had a thing for him since... well, forever," Parvati Patil said, laughing lightly to take the edge off the sarcasm. "That hardly makes you a good judge of his character."

Harry gave her a quick smile. The sound of her laughter was a pleasant surprise. Ever since her twin sister had been brutally murdered in the beginning of the war, Parvati had been quiet and withdrawn. It wasn't until the last few months that she had actually started talking to people again. Maybe it was true, Harry mused, that old saying about time healing all wounds.

"If you ask me, I think he went mad." Penelope Clearwater's crisp voice drew Harry's attention back to the conversation. "I mean, he watched both his parents die that last day. That's bound to do strange things to a person..."

A sudden hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned towards Harry. Were they asking his opinion, he wondered, or did they just feel awkward? He shrugged noncommittally at them, and they turned back to their discussion.

Harry hadn't been there when it happened, but of course he had heard about it later. Lucius Malfoy had been killed while he leading the Death Eaters in an attack on Madam Pomfrey's hospital tent. Draco had been part of the group that was guarding the injured. Narcissa Malfoy had died only a few hours later. She had left the Death Eaters at the same time Draco did, begging for sanctuary from her abusive husband. Everyone had believed her story until the very end when she was discovered pouring poison into the water supply. She was killed fighting her way free from the Aurors.

"So, Draco has reclaimed Malfoy Manor from the Ministry now?" someone asked, and Harry listened carefully.

"No," Katie said. "My future mother-in-law's second cousin - the one who's related to Malfoy - told her that he's staying at The Gauntlet."

"The Gauntlet?" Zacharias snorted. "How predictable. You can always trust Malfoy to stay at the most expensive hotel there is."

Everyone nodded and agreed that, yes, it was predictable. Maybe, Harry thought, that was the only thing in the whole situation that was predictable.

After that the conversation turned to other things, and Harry left, saying that he had to get up early the next morning. It was a clear, warm night, and he decided to walk the short way to his flat instead of Apparating.

The Wednesday night gatherings at The Leaky Cauldron had become a haven for all of them. Four months after the war ended, they had still been struggling with suspicion and despair, so deeply ingrained by then that it felt like they would never be able to trust again. The Wednesdays had been Ginny's idea. She had stood up in a meeting about the rebuilding of Hogsmeade and asked, "What about rebuilding ourselves?" At first she had been told to sit down again and be quiet. Mad-Eye Moody had even gone so far as to tell her she was talking nonsense. But she had refused to be silenced, and had made a passionate speech about how they were talking to each other as soldiers and had forgotten how to be friends. She had suggested - demanded more like - that they should meet once a week just for fun. Fun.... That was a concept most of them hadn't thought about in a long time.

At first it had been difficult. Ginny had prohibited any subject that had to do with the war or all the things that had to be done in its aftermath - "We get enough of that during the rest of the week," she had said - and it seemed to be disturbingly hard to think of anything else to talk about. Everyone was suffering from their own personal nightmares, and they could not bring themselves to trust each other. At some point or other in the war, they had all learned just how much damage trusting the wrong person could do.

For Harry it had been Neville Longbottom. Sweet, innocent Neville, who had turned out to be not so innocent after all. He had been the one who led the Creevey brothers and their Muggle friends into a trap. He had laughed as they were tortured to death, according to the one Muggle who had somehow managed to get away.

Trust didn't come easy after that.

Neville was dead now, like so many others, but Harry still shuddered when he thought of all the time he had spent with him, all the nights sleeping in the same dorm, never knowing what the other boy was capable of.

A few minutes later, Harry entered his building and climbed the short staircase up to his flat. At the door he looked around carefully before whispering the unlocking spell.

It wasn't until he was inside with the door firmly closed behind him that he relaxed the control over his mind and allowed the realisation to really sink in. He sank down on the couch, as is weighed down by the thought.

Draco was back.

And Harry had yet to decide what that meant to him.

After an indeterminable amount of time he pushed himself off the couch and knelt down next to his old Hogwarts trunk. It contained the few things from... before... that he had wanted to save, the few things that were so precious to him that he didn't care that they reminded him of the war. On top of everything else lay his most treasured possession: a Slytherin scarf. Draco's scarf.

There had been moments when Harry was sure that the scarf had been the only thing that kept him from going mad, the only thing that could protect him when he couldn't stop shivering from that horrible chill that had nothing to do with temperature. He had used to wrap it tightly around himself and bury his face in the slightly itchy softness, trying to soak in the warmth and comfort it offered. Somehow the scarf had become a symbol, a testimony that there were still good things in the world.

It felt a bit strange that something that had once belonged to Draco - something Slytherin even - should have such a profound impact on his life. But then again, he thought, hadn't that always been the case? Draco was the first Slytherin he had met. Harry had disliked him at first sight, and based on that he had formed an opinion that had lasted for so many years.

But maybe sometimes last impressions could be more important than first.

***

The last time he saw Draco had been on the night before the final battle. Of course, then he had not known what the next day would bring. In fact, right then he hadn't been able to imagine a world without constant struggle and fear. He was so, so tired. Too tired to sleep or feel or care. Nothing mattered anymore, except taking another step without collapsing, and then another, but he preferred not to think that far ahead. He would do what was expected of him, whether it was to kill yet another Death Eater, or to save another innocent, or simply to stay alive. But he could no longer remember why he was doing those things.

It was the kind of night people write ghost stories about. It was dark and cloudy, and the wind was ripping the last leaves from the trees. The air felt cold and murky - late autumn air, completely devoid of the crispness that the coming of winter would put in it just a few weeks later. Harry decided he liked it. It made him jumpy.

He had left the sleeping quarters of whatever castle they were staying in at the moment - he had long ago stopped keeping track of where they were. That wasn't his responsibility - and was walking back and forth on one of the numerous balconies. He knew it was stupid, as an attack could come at any time, but he couldn't make himself care.

He twirled around, wand ready in his hand, the moment he felt the presence of another person on the balcony. Draco was leaning against the doorframe, looking like he had been standing there a long time. Harry wondered if he had. It was a disconcerting thought... that someone could have been watching him without him being aware of it.

"Why did you come here?" Harry asked.

Draco just shrugged and let his eyes drift to the dark forest below them. Harry turned away and stared out in the night, too. There was nothing there to see. He wasn't sure he had the energy to deal with Draco right now. The rivalry between them had faded as the war effort demanded more and more from them, and lately they hadn't even fought very much. But still... if someone had to disturb his lonely musings tonight, he'd rather it had been anyone but Draco.

He just wanted to be alone, needed a short moment away from all the hopes and expectations that everyone seemed to pile on him.

"You're cold." Draco's voice next to his ear made him jump and turn around again. He hadn't heard the other boy coming closer. "Here," Draco continued, taking off his scarf and looping it over Harry's shoulders. Then he gently wound it around Harry's neck as many times as it would go, and tied it with a loose knot under his chin. "This should help a little."

Harry looked down at Draco's left hand that had settled on his shoulder. He didn't want to look Draco in the eyes. He didn't think he could stand seeing that let's-keep-Harry-safe-so-he-can-fight-Voldemort look. Not on Draco's face. He was used to it from anybody else. Had accepted it, even. But not from Draco.

"Harry..." Draco's voice sounded soft and insecure. He raised his other hand and touched Harry's cheek. Slowly, carefully he turned Harry's face upwards and Harry had to look at him. He found no trace of misguided protectiveness in Draco's face, no pity or false cheerfulness. Instead there was a tender caring and an... openness... that Harry had never seen in him before. Draco didn't remove his hand, but let it rest against Harry's cheek, making small circles with his thumb.

Harry smiled tentatively, and when Draco smiled back, he took the hand Draco had placed oh his shoulder and held it in both of his.

***

Harry smiled at the memory and absentmindedly twisted the scarf between his hands. He had never imagined that a simple gesture of caring from such an unlikely source could touch him like that. But it had, and he was deeply grateful for it.

He hadn't seen Draco since that night, but he had thought about him more than he would ever admit, imagined conversations they would have if Draco ever came back, carefully planning every word he would say. But his fantasies had always been short and surreal, because the truth was he had no idea how Draco would answer.

And now Draco was back.

Harry knew there was only one thing he could do.

With the scarf pressed tightly against his chest he Disapparated.

***

"I'd like to see Draco Malfoy," he told the witch at the reception desk of The Gauntlet.

"Mr. Malfoy has asked not to be disturbed," she informed him with a smile that was just this side of a sneer.

"Could you just tell him I'm here? Please? Could you tell him Harry Potter needs to talk to him?"

The witch's gaze flicked to his forehead, but she still shook her head. "I'm sorry, but..."

"Please," Harry interrupted. "Just ask him. If he says no, I'll leave."

She hesitated for a few more seconds. Then she nodded, and tossed a fistful of floo powder into a small fireplace behind the desk. She stuck her head into the flames and emerged a few minutes later, telling him that Draco had agreed to see him. "Just take the elevator to the top floor," she said. "There's only one room there."

Draco opened the door immediately when Harry knocked. Without a word he gestured for Harry to step in.

The room was magnificent, larger than the Gryffindor boys' dormitory at Hogwarts and luxuriously furnished, but Harry didn't pay much attention to it. He stared at Draco, noticing that he hadn't changed much. He was a little broader over the shoulders maybe, and his hair was longer, but other than that he seemed just like Harry remembered him.

"Why did you come here?" Draco asked him after what felt like hours of awkward silence.

"I..." Harry tore his gaze away from Draco and looked down at the scarf he was still holding in a vicelike grip. "I never got a chance to thank you properly for the scarf."

There was silence again, and, unable to stand the tension, Harry looked up.

Draco was staring at him. After a moment he took a deep breath, as if to steady himself. Then he shrugged. "It's just a scarf."

Without any conscious decision to do so, Harry crossed the room to where Draco was standing, and gently placed the scarf over Draco's shoulders the same way that Draco had done to him all those months ago.

"No," he said, and feeling strangely reluctant to let go - of the scarf or Draco, he didn't know - he held on to the ends. "It's not just a scarf."

"What is it then?" Draco's eyes were searching his almost frantically, and there was a guarded look on his face.

Harry wished more than ever that he could say something brilliant and profound, or, failing that, at least something witty. He wanted to talk about hope and caring and things that turned into bright sparks of comfort when the world was dark and cold. He wanted to talk about warmth and friendship and things he didn't even know the name for.

But no words came to him.

So he settled for the truth.

"I don't know," he whispered. "But I'd like to find out."

Draco reached up to touch his cheek, just like he had done that night, and the openness returned to his face.

Harry smiled, and suddenly it was so easy, because he knew Draco would smile back.