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narcissusneverknewme · 5 years

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Protection Detail P2C1

Part Two: The Growth of a Friendship

Chapter Three: Happy Holidays

The first time Draco walked into the Gryffindor common room the other twelve people currently occupying it stopped and stared openly. Draco took everything in with a sneer, cold eyes roaming over the warm house colors that decorated every inch of the room.

“This place disgusting,” Draco said, “Does anyone ever get sick? Do you suffer from sensory deprivation after a few hours of seeing nothing but this awful shade of red splashed on every-”

“Malfoy, shut up.” Harry said, with no real venom in his voice. Harry appreciated how intimidating this must be for the other boy and therefore thought he could let a few slights against his house colors slide for now.

“What is he doing here?” Lavender Brown asked from her place at a table near the entrance.

“Same thing you are, I suppose.” Harry said evenly.

“This is the Gryffindor common room. He really doesn’t--”

“You have Hannah Abbot in here for your study groups all the time.” Said Ron. “She’s a Hufflepuff.” Though far from being Draco’s biggest fans, Ron and Hermione had jumped on the protect-Draco-Malfoy bandwagon to help Harry.

“Yes. She’s a Hufflepuff. And a nice one.” Replied Hannah.

The four ignored her and took up seats next to the fire. No further protests were verbalized, but curious glances and pointed glares came from every side. Ginny, also ignoring the looks, came to sit next to beside them.

“Welcome to Gryffindor, Malfoy.” She said by way of greeting. The comment clearly irked him, but Draco did not respond beyond a slight inclination of the head, likely remembering a well-placed bat-bogey hex a few years before, “I’m a bit surprised you’re here, actually,” she continued conversationally, “but I suppose Harry wanted to keep an eye on you. Don’t trust the other Slytherin’s with him, Harry?” she asked.

Harry just looked at her, unsure how to answer. He wasn’t sure why but he didn’t like the way that had sounded.

“I mean, I might be wrong but I thought it was mainly Gryffindors and Ravenclaws that were attacking you between classes?”

Draco looked as though he were about to say something exceptionally nasty, a reaction Harry was starting to associate with Draco’s discomfort as much as distain or actual dislike.

“Harry here doesn’t like to take any chances with his ickle Dwaco’s safety,” an obnoxious voice cut in, mimicking the high pitch and misformed words of a small child. Zacharias Smith had entered the common room, unnoticed by the five seated by the fire, with Colin and Dennis Creevey trailing behind him.

“Shut it.” Colin said sharply before a stunned Harry or livid Draco could respond, “Sorry, sorry. Charms partner. No choice.” Smith looked offended at this.

“Oi, Lavender!” Ron said, far too quietly for her to hear, “Where’s the the Gryffindor-Only Common Room Protection Squad when you need them?”

Draco looked as though he longed to say something and was putting a lot of effort into keeping his mouth closed. Harry must have looked extremely red-faced and flustered because Colin, pushing Zacharias towards the other side of the common room mouthed, “Sorry Harry,” once more.

After the first few times, people got used to having Draco in the common room. He was not particularly quiet or polite, in fact he was notably neither, but they all got used to him as break progressed. It helped that Harry, Ron, Hermione (who actually heard some of the first years referring to them as “The Golden Trio”), and Ginny were all rather popular, especially with their younger classmates.

It also helped that Draco was a good storyteller, and could be very entertaining when he wasn’t busy being deeply unpleasant.

This really shouldn’t have been a surprise, Harry had seen large groups of Slytherins listening intently as Draco had regaled them with humiliating anecdotes about Harry for years. To be fair, seething with anger and embarrassment from across the Great Hall was not a prime seat for observing the finer points of Draco’s narration technique.

Sitting in the Gryffindor common room, listening to him relate something that didn’t involve Harry fainting or having his nose broken, was a strange experience for Harry. He had expected Draco’s mordant humor to be annoying, what he had not expected to find his sarcasm and clever turns of phrase to be amusing.

When Draco told a story he used his whole body. His fingers combed through the air as he described situations and people; he used ironic understatement and ludicrous hyperbole in rapid succession. Draco had a gift for theatrics. He did dramatic impressions, mirrored facial expressions and used wide, sweeping gestures. Draco was absolutely ridiculous, and Harry found himself enthralled, soaking in every motion, every word. Just like those Slytherins he, Ron, and Hermione used to mock for exactly this kind of pathetic rapture.

Harry was also surprised by how quickly his friends got used to Draco. Light-hearted bickering and harmless insults soon put everyone at ease. It was strange, since it was Harry who most hated Draco, that it was Harry for whom they all learned to tolerate him.

The two Harry had most anticipated finding it difficult to be courteous to one another surprised Harry by finding it the easiest. Hermione and Draco were so deeply amiable to one another that it almost made Harry uncomfortable. Hermione’s delicacy and ability to find a seemingly endless number of neutral topics of conversation, combined with Draco’s impressive ability to fake geniality, took the first steps in establishing peace.

As the first days of near-constant contact passed, Hermione and Draco’s conversations slowly became less and less neutral, but it no longer seemed to matter. They had become sort of friends, allied in their determination to squash the awkward atmosphere first conjured by Draco’s presence. He and Hermione argued about even the most sensitive subjects, often swapping petty insults along the way. After commenting on everything from one another’s test scores to fashion choices, they always ended their arguments slightly red in the face but, quite inexplicably to Harry’s mind, no less friends.

Ron and Ginny both opted to stay as far from the two of them as possible as soon as a debate sprung up. Hermione had a habit of appealing to them (mostly Ron) to back her up, so they tended to turn tail and run at the slightest indication that the discussion was going to get heavy.

Harry rarely said anything during these conversations. He didn’t have to worry about either Hermione or Draco dragging him in because whenever they tried he’d just give them a thoughtful look and say, “Er, I dunno... It’s a good question, though,” and so they both gave up asking. He found their debates oddly fascinating, he couldn’t explain why but he enjoyed listening to them.

The five of them studied, ate, played board games, and relaxed together. At night the entire group walked Draco to his common room. The conversation at the entrance to the dungeons would always go the same way.

“Thanks. I mean,” Draco would drawl, “I probably could have found my own common room on my own…”

“But why chance it, eh, Malfoy?” Ron would say.

“Watch your back in there and cast-” Harry would start.

“Yes, mother, I’ll do that.” Draco would interrupt.

“Right then.” Harry would say.

“Sleep well, Draco” Hermione would say.

“Yeah, g’night.” Ginny would add.

###

On Thursday night, six days after the start of Christmas break, Ginny came into the Great Hall for lunch. Because it there were so few students, only one table was set for meals, so Harry, Draco, Ron, and Hermione were seated together. Ginny sat down next to Hermione and leaned across the table, facing Harry.

“Hi, did you hear about the dance?” She asked without ceremony.

“Hello to you too, Weasley.” Draco said, not looking up from his book. Harry rolled his eyes.

“The dance?” Hermione asked as the others stared blankly.

“Yeah. I guess even though they’re back to workshopping the whole Triwizard Tournament thing for now, the Yule Ball tradition is back on. I guess it was Grubbly-Plank’s idea. It’s the first Christmas since the war; there’s been so much mourning and people have been kind of sombre. Everyone loved the ball so much last time-- they’ve deciding they want to hold it annually.”

Harry and Ron exchanged looks at the “everyone loved it” comment but said nothing.

“That’s a terrible idea.” Said Draco, “Not nearly enough people stay over the Christmas holidays. Why are they having a dance?”

“Yeah,” agreed Ron, “Pretty much everyone stayed for Christmas in our fourth year, and we still had more than enough room for the Beauxbatons and Durmstrangs. We won’t have a quarter as many people. Seems a bit daft to have a ball.”

“Hmm,” said Hermione, “You’re right. There are less than 300 students at school right now.”

“That’s what Flitwick thought but Slughorn said there was an old ballroom on the ground floor for exactly this sort of thing.”

“Wait, how do you know all of this?” Harry asked her.

“Hagrid.”

On Friday evening Professor McGonagall, as acting headmistress, announced the ball was for all ages and was to be held on Christmas day, starting at eight o’clock. That was in four days.

In the meantime, there was a Hogsmeade trip planned for Saturday. Professor McGonagall reminded the seventh and “eighth” year students that they were legally adults and could apparate. She explained that they were, therefore, permitted during Hogsmeade weekends to go to Diagon Alley, if they wished.

This was good because it seemed that almost no one had dress robes. Of their group, Ron and Hermione had brought them, Ginny asked Mrs. Weasley to owl hers, but Harry and (surprisingly) Draco were without.

So the next day the five of them walked towards the village along with most of the other students. Once outside of Hogwarts grounds, however, they disapparated, leaving behind everyone sixth year and below.

Diagon Alley was fantastic. Everything was decorated for Yuletide. Soft snow was falling, people were singing, and everywhere were the colors of the season: silver, gold, red, and green. The whole street smelled like mulled wine and hot gingerbread. Golden bells hung from wizards’ robes and dangled off rooftops. Harry watched as his breath froze in the air and rose upwards in a merry, dancing cloud.

“Alright, let’s split up,” Hermione said, sounding businesslike, “Harry and Draco, you can go to Madam Malkin’s, I need to stop at Flourish and Blotts, these two” she gestured to Ron, and Ginny, “need go to the apothecary for Molly. Why don’t we all meet up at the Magical Menagerie. Then we can go to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, get something to eat, and check out some of the vendors together.”

Since no one seemed inclined to argue, they all set off.

Standing in the shop as Madam Malkin took their measurements felt very strange, but Harry didn’t know why. He’d been in this shop plenty of times and it had never made him feel quite so odd. As Madam Malkin walked off to ring up their purchases, Draco turned to look at Harry, a look of faint amusement on his face.

“Play quidditch at all?” he asked.

Harry stared.

“I do.” Draco continued.

They looked at each other in silence, then suddenly both laughed.

“You were such a git.” Harry choked.

“I’ve never been a ‘git’ in my life. You, on the other hand...” Draco answered, face and voice full of humor.

“Malfoy, you were a right prat and you know it.”

They were still flushed with laughter as they turned to shrug on their winter layers. Since they had entered from Muggle London through the Leaky Cauldron, they were both wearing Muggle clothes.

They had shed their bulky layers for the fitting, Harry revealing jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt, and Draco black trousers and a short-sleeve button up. Harry decided that Draco’s muggle studies must be paying off as he looked entirely normal, an impressive feat for any wizard. Harry had never seen him in short sleeves, he realized absently.

As Draco lifted his coat, the underside of his left forearm was momentarily visible.

Harry, moved lightening-fast, grabbed at Draco’s arm without pausing to think. He had drug it up to eye level before Draco realized what was happening. A moment too late, Draco wrenched his arm out of Harry’s grasp, staring at him wide-eyed.

Harry’s mouth went dry. “I never saw-- ”

Draco turning on his heel and stormed off without speaking, clutching his arm to his chest as though it hurt.

Harry was left to hurriedly pay for both of their robes. He had to practically run to catch up with Draco, who was striding down the pavement at top speed.

As he neared him Harry almost shouted, “Malfoy, I didn’t mean-- I had no right… ”

“Exactly,” He bit back, “You have no right.”

“Look, I’m sorry, alright?” Harry said, tugging on Draco’s right arm, trying to slow him down.

“Fine. It’s forgotten.” Draco said, tone clearly indicating that it was not.

“Can we please... Can we just… Let’s go to the Menagerie, yeah?”

“Fine.”

They sped down the street, not speaking or looking at one another, moving at a pace that easily outstriped every other passerby.

Harry sighed with relief when he saw Ron and Ginny waving out of the Magical Menagerie window. Upon entering the shop, he and Draco separated, Draco going to stand next to Ginny and immediately striking up a rather forced discussion on pygmy puff care and Harry turning to Ron.

Ron gave him a big eyed “what the heck” look. Harry just shook his head in response.

The four of them only had to wait a few minutes before Hermione joined them and they entered the shop together, Draco and Ginny still deep in conversation.

They spread out through the shop, looking around at all of the interesting creatures for sale. While Harry was looking at a group of purple ferrets, he bumped into Hermione. He turned to apologize but before he could she spoke.

“Harry, is something wrong?”

“What?”

“Draco and you... Well, you both seem a bit on edge.”

“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

She looked at him calculatingly, and then seemed to decide to let it go, “Well,alright,” she said, “Anyway, I was thinking you should get a pet, Harry.”

“I don’t want a pet,” he said, surprised at the sudden change in topic.

“Yes, well, you should get one. What about an owl? Or a cat?” Harry began to shake his head when Ron called from across the shop.

“Harry! Come here!”

He and Hermione walked over to see what the other three were looking at. A group of slender black snakes were lazily stirring in a large tank. A large, handsome one was coiled in the center of the tank.

“Why so many loud ones?” The handsome serpent asked, sounding irritated. “The large orange one is noisy.” Said another, probably. annoyed that Ron had shouted.

Harry chuckled, “He’s always like that.” he said.

He turned to look at his friends, who were all staring at him. He felt a bit annoyed at this, they’ve all seen me speak parseltongue before, he thought, even Draco.

“What are they they saying?” Ron asked.

“Talking about you actually,” Harry said, “They think you’re too loud.”

Ron’s only reaction was interest, “Really? What exactly--”

“That one there,” Harry said, gesturing, “said ‘the large orange one is noisy.’” Harry chucked at the look of delight on everyone’s faces.

“You’re having a go!” Accused Ron, amused.

“No, I’m not. He actually said that.” Harry laughed.

“Well, anyway, Harry, look in the hollow log,” Ginny said. She and Draco moved aside so Harry could peer through the glass and into the space she’s indicated. Inside the false log was a snake. It was slightly smaller than the others and a startling shade of white, with glittering black eyes and fine, smooth scales. As it moved Harry saw that there was a large black patch on it’s back and on the tip of it’s tail. The black of it’s spots and eyes only made the sheer whiteness of it more startling.

Harry stared at it, it stared back.

“Hello.” Said Harry.

“Hello.” Said the snake.

“What’s your name?” asked Harry.

“No,” Said the snake, “nameless.”

“I’m Harry Potter,” Harry said. “You’re beautiful.”

“You are strange.” Said the snake, “Speaking. Too many eyes.”

Harry laughed and turned to his companions, who were gawking. “What?” He asked impatiently.

“You said your name,” Said Draco, “In a pack of spitting and hissing sounds, you said your name.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what did he say?” Hermione asked, gesturing towards the snake.

“She thinks I’m strange. My glasses confuse her,” Harry said.

They looked between Harry and the snake in wonder.

“How do you know it’s a girl?” Ginny asked after a moment.

“She sounds like one,” Harry answered.

The others got owl treats and things and payed for them. Then Harry made a decision. Catching the eye of the saleswoman on duty, Harry asked if he could have a look at the snake.

“I just want to look at her,” Harry muttered to a triumphant-looking Hermione, “I’m not buying her.”

A few hours later and the whole troop had returned to Gryffindor tower. They were sitting by the fire, talking and taking turns holding Manasa, Harry’s beautiful new pet.

She was oddly friendly for a reptile and seemed to enjoy both the attention and the warmth that came from being handled.

She was also a bit snarky, and sometimes said things that made Harry laugh. Whenever this happened the others would exchange looks like they were a bit lost. Manasa mistrusted Ron, “Too big,” she said, “Makes big noises.”

Harry laughed, “He says you’re pretty.”

“Still too big.” She said, but she sounded pleased.

###

Harry did not have the chance to talk to Draco for a long time. He finally got an opportunity when the others had gone to see Hagrid. Harry remained behind, Draco had protested, saying he would mind his manners, but Harry insisted that he had potions homework to do anyway.

So there they were, Harry and Draco, sitting opposite one another on the floor of the otherwise empty common room, with the fire beside them and books spread out between them.

They both attempted to study for a while, but were repeatedly distracted by one another until they both gave up and lay their books aside.

“But why don’t you just cut it?”

“You really aren’t one to talk, Malfoy, I’ve never seen your hair this long.”

“My hair is longer, yes, but it isn’t long and it isn’t messy, both of which are words that could be used to describe that kneezle nest on your head.”

Harry grinned and Draco returned the expression. A moment passed. Harry’s smile faded, and Draco’s vanished in response.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that, Potter. What?”

“I just… Can I see it?”

“See wha-- oh. No.”

Another moment of silence.

“Please?”

Draco snorted, “As if pleading would get anywhere with me. If this is how you get Hermione and Weasley to do things for you, I must say I’m disappointed in both of them. And that’s saying something, especially where Weasley’s concerned.”

Harry ignored this, “Draco it’s not… you’re not the first to wear it.”

“I know that,” he said sharply, “that’s the point.”

“No I mean, good men have born that mark. People make choices. Sometimes they’re wrong--”

“Stop. Whatever you’re doing, whatever this is” Draco gestured widely at Harry and the surrounding area, “stop.”

Another silence.

“I have scars.” Harry said, “not just here,” he pushed his hair back, “here, too,” he showed Draco the back of his hand.

Draco glanced at it, still angry, but froze as he took in the words etched into Harry’s hand. I must not tell lies. He reached out slowly and Harry let him run his fingers across it, feeling the uneven scar tissue.

“What is that?”

“Umbridge.”

“What?” Draco looked up at Harry’s face, shocked.

Harry’s fingers wrapped around Draco’s left wrist, “I showed you mine.” He said softly.

Draco quirked an eyebrow at Harry’s choice of words, and then let out a heavy breath. He flipped his arm over and pulled back his sleeve.

Then it was Harry’s turn to stare. Shining, white against pale white, was the twisting, grotesque shape of the Dark Mark. With Voldemort’s defeat the mark had faded from a black tattoo-like print on the skin, to something that looked like a scar.

Slowly, hesitantly, Harry ran his fingertips over the old mark. He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Did it hurt?” Harry wasn’t sure why he was whispering.

“Yes.”

Harry was quiet for a long time. He thought about his scars, about the marks Ron got at the ministry in their fifth year, and the ones given to Hermione by Bellatrix Lestrange. He thought about Bill’s face and George’s missing ear.

In the dim light of the fire he could see, protruding slightly from Draco’s collar, the thin lines of scars Harry himself had left with a curse he didn’t understand. He thought about the mark on Draco’s arm and the child who had accepted it, not really understanding what it meant beyond his family’s safety and prowess. He thought about others who had taken that mark and wondered how many of them had not understood what it would mean. Finally he spoke.

“Do you know who Regulus Black was?”

Draco blinked at the unexpected question. “Yes. He was a relative of mine. Brother of Sirius Black.”

Harry smiled a little. Draco said nothing, waiting for Harry to continue. And so Harry did.

He told Draco everything he knew about Regulus. He told him about his family life and background, about his lifelong desire to serve the Dark Lord and the pureblood line. He told him that Regulus had been only sixteen when he received the mark. He talked about horcruxes and R.A.B. and the role he played in the war. He talked about Kreacher. All the while he traced the lines of the mark on Draco’s arm, running his fingers lightly over it.

When he was done he still didn’t release Draco’s arm, and Draco didn’t reclaim it. Harry talked about Sirius and Draco talked about his parents and aunt. They talked about the war and all the fear and anger they’d felt at the things they’d both been asked to do. They talked for hours. About everything.

It was incredibly strange whenever Harry remembered that he was sitting in his own common room, sharing secrets and scars with Draco Malfoy, his oldest enemy. But then their eyes would meet or their knees would knock together lightly and it wouldn’t seem strange at all, and that would be more frightening still.

When, without any warning at all, the whole Gryffindor gang burst through the door into the common room, Harry dropped Draco’s arm and shot back, hitting his head against an armchair.

“Hey, Harry. You alright?” Ron asked as Draco crowed with laughter.

Harry shot him a look of annoyance before turning to Ron, “Yes, I’m fine, no thanks to you. Manasa’s right.” he said sounding bitter as he massaged the back of his head, “You make big noises.”

Ron laughed and chucked a wrapped parcel at Harry’s head, “Here’s your present from Hagrid. You’re welcome.”

Notes:

I disagree with J.K. Rowling’s conjecture that Harry would likely lose the ability to speak parseltongue after his and Voldemort’s deaths. I prefer to imagine that it was not, as supposed, a trait given to Harry via old Voldy’s soul. I prefer to believe that it was a gift of Harry’s own, partly because I love the similarities between Tom Riddle and Harry. Tom was a half-blood raised by muggles who discovered he could speak to snakes and immediately used this ability to do harm. Harry was a half-blood raised by muggles who discovered he could speak to snakes and immediately used this ability to hold polite small talk with a Brazilian boa constrictor. I love the idea of Harry eventually owning a snake.

The snake in this story gets her name from a Hindu snake deity (aka a "Naga"/"Nagini"), called Manasa or Mansa Devi.

#Harry Potter #drarry #draco/harry #draco malfoy #protection detail #maykomakesstuff #draco x harry #fanfiction #fanfic #ao3 #chapter title is a link

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narcissusneverknewme · 5 years

Text

The Grand Hotel

Somewhere below the Grand Hotel

There is a tunnel that leads down to hell

That’s Simon’s voice. No one in this place could ever mistake that voice. Not singing, not speaking, not crying. If they heard it for the first time in a hundred years, or a hundred thousand, they would know it. The few short months that had past since it last filled these lifeless halls had certainly not begun to mar the memory of it.

There was a time, when first it became familiar, that the inhabitants of that once-silent building would have done nearly anything to escape his voice.

Now, they drift slowly from dark rooms and deep corners of the Dumort, pulled from the shadows towards its bright, seemingly magnetic sound.

Take the dumbwaiter, the laundry chute

Then sneak through the hall past the boys shining boots

Deep within the hotel, Stan finds himself floating out of his room, into the passageway. Blinking slowly as though still waking up, he sees the others filling the hall. It’s strange, surreal, to see so many people moving in harmony. They all mirror Stan’s gradual, almost involuntary movements and dreamy expression. Slow eyes hover over one another before turning upward, as though they could peer through the ceiling to see the source of the song many floors above.

Turn left at the courtyard, through the old garden

Where all the bellhops smoke with the guards

And then you run to the old lake house

Down to the old lake house

Run to the old lake house where it begins

Simon’s singing. He hasn’t sung in a long time. He hasn’t been home in a long time.

Home. Somehow, this moment is the first time he’s realized that the Dumort is his home. As dark and strange and full of bloody, tear-stained secrets as it is, it’s his home.

He plays his guitar with ease, the rhythm and chords coming to him freely. The words are harder. He hears them again as he sings them, thinks about them like he’d never heard them before.

Under the floorboards there's a deep well

That leads to a spring that sprung up in hell

Hell . The word had entered his mind with new meaning after his death.

When he’d woken, lungs filling with earth and body aching with cold, as he’d clawed his way through six feet of suffocating sod, as the crushing feeling of being buried and unsure of the way upwards had choked him as effectively as the dirt filling his mouth and nose, the word had flickered briefly through his head, then was pushed aside by desperation.

When he’d emerged only for cold and panic to be replaced by hunger, burning hunger, the word was still there, in the back of his mind.

When he’d realized what his afterlife really was, he’d thought it again. He was a monster; not as in a “bad person,” an actual monster. Dangerous, predatory, unable even to live without sucking the vitality out of other human’s veins. He was a devil, and he was trapped with himself for eternity. That, he’d thought, was as literal an interpretation of “hell on Earth” as was possible. He’d thought then that he understood.

Now, as he sang in his favorite nook, tucked away with his guitar on the penultimate floor of the Hotel Dumort, he knew that Hell was not pain. It was not fear, nor thirst, nor demons. He knew now that to be damned was to fall-- to be cast out. It was separation. It was the knowledge that his loss and isolation were his own choice. It was guilt. It was sin. It was his own betrayal of those he’d loved.

That's where old devils danced and kissed

And made their blood pacts in the ancient myths

Simon can picture in perfect detail Raphael’s expression when he’d declared Simon a traitor. He wishes he couldn’t. He wishes the memory of that look wasn’t so much clearer than all his others, like it was branded on his mind. Like it’ll be there when time has erased every other memory.

Maybe one day he won’t remember what Raphael’s laugh sounded like. Or the defiance in his face when Simon had seen the mark the cross around Raphael’s neck burned into his skin. Or that half-repressed smile he’d worn the night Simon made Raphael dance with him. Lily had wolf-whistled from what she clearly judged to be a safe distance, she was lucky Raphael was feeling generous: he’d ignored her, lips turning up just a bit more.

Simon’s clan had been his family, and he’d owed them loyalty. He had not given it. If he still remembered his treachery when every other memory had faded away, he’d deserve it.

And running through forest they screamed in chorus

While piercing fair maidens' chests with their horns

Raphael stands on the rooftop of the Dumort, hands stiffly at his sides. The sun is safely tucked beneath the horizon, but colors linger in the sky, traces of daylight still in the air-- it’s his favorite time; the most human time.

Dusk always evoked a certain longing in Raphael. When he’d first found himself confined to the night with the rest of the dark things, the sunset had been painful. The grief he’d felt at seeing it had been unexpected and overwhelming.

It was fitting in a way, death had become his domain, and the dying sun was the only light permitted in his life. The first time he’d watched it set really knowing that he’d never see it rise again, the pain he’d felt had left him breathless. It was like someone had punched a hole through him, leaving his lungs gasping and his chest empty.

But time dulls everything, even for the undead. It had been years since the gloaming had brought more than a dull twinge to Raphel. Tonight is different.

A single floor separates him and the sound of Simon’s voice. He’s singing, a song that manages to be both playful and melancholy. Raphael can’t help listening, he can’t ignore the soft sound of Simon’s voice anymore than he can ignore the ache in his own chest. As the sun rays recede, the pull Raphael had felt-- the need to be out here, breathing in what light he can-- fades with it. Something else tugs at him, another kind of light calling to him.

And then they lay in the grass 'til the dawn came

Sleeping away 'til the dawn came

Lay in the grass where now stands the Grand Hotel

The vampires are all stirring now, gravitating towards the big spaces where they’ve danced to this voice before.

The maître d' and a fancy chef

Silver's real, the liquor's top shelf

Play some tennis, swim in a pool

Stroll the garden, shady and cool

Simon’s always reminded Lily of living things, growing things. He’s crept into their hearts in such an unexpected way. He’d had them all wrapped up in his clutches before they’d quite known what they were about, like vines twining around a tree.

When he hadn’t chosen them, when he chose the Nephilim, when he chose her , Lily had felt his vinelike fingers, coiled around the clan’s hearts, shredding through them like thread through butter.

She’d been angry, then sad, and then… she’d wilted. Simon had brought humanity and energy back into their lives and then he’d taken it away again. Without it, she couldn’t even stay sad. She’d just grown lethargic, sinking further into apathy than she’d ever done.

Now his music, his emotion, the barely-there sound of one of his legs vibrating with excess energy, fills the hotel again. Lily feels it rousing her. The song is full of thoughts forlorn and wistful. It reminds Lily how much she misses life. It’s nostalgic and challenging and she isn’t sure she likes it.

You won't care that the devils

Won't mind that the devils

Won't know that the devils are near

Simon knows that the sun is setting, that the hotel will be waking up soon, and he’s afraid. He’d done what he could to atone for wronging Raphael, he’d found Camille and endangered himself to capture her. When things went south (as they inevitably did) he’d proved just how remorseful he was; just how loyal to Raphael and the clan; just how dedicated to Raphael’s safety. In return, Raphael had told him he was allowed back in the hotel. That was two weeks ago.

Yesterday, Simon finally got up the courage to return, but he couldn’t imagine just waltzing in the front doors. Bursting in like a student 15 minutes late to class on the first day, all eyes turning to him to sit in judgement. So he’d snuck in before the sun set and the Dumort rose.

He’d sat down to wait for the others to wake, but he’d run out patience, run out of nerve, after only a few moments.

The music had been meant to calm him. He was trying to keep his mind off his impending reunion with his fearless leader and the clan. It isn’t working. At all.

He wants to see him, them. But he’s scared, and so, so sorry.

Somewhere below the grand hotel

There is a tunnel that leads straight to hell

The Dumort used to be a kind of hell for Simon, he thinks idly as his fingers pluck the strings. He thinks it might have been a kind of hell for all of them.

But no one comes up for the souls anymore

They come for some comfort and for the dance floor

And hiding sharp horns under fedoras

Do not disturb signs instead of a chorus

The vampires are standing in the lobby and the stateroom. They’re all listening now, eyeing each other to see who’ll give in first. None of them have ever been able to resist.

Finally, Lily offers Elliott her hand. They dance. Others begin dancing in pairs, or small groups, or even alone. It’s nothing like a vampire party. The lights are low, the music is soft and clear, and when they dance it’s slow.

Elliott’s hand is almost warm where it holds Lily’s. That’s probably impossible. Lily isn’t sure.

As they dance past, Lily notices that sad, ever-silent European couple. They’re holding each other in a way that looks stately and rigid, moving in a traditional, elegant dance. They’re looking into each other’s eyes. In the second that Lily watches them, she can see that they’re communicating. She thinks maybe they’re still in love.

They toss and turn 'til the dawn comes

On soft sheets 'til the dawn comes

No one sleeps at the grand hotel

Simon lets the music soothe his anxiety as much as it can. Tonight, whatever it holds, whatever welcome he receives from his clan, from Raphael, tonight is going to be pivotal.

Room service, mini-bar

Scented soaps, chauffeured cars

The low light of the room takes on an otherworldly glow as the twilight in the window wanes. The bodies continue their unhurried dance.

Stay a day, stay a week

Here's the tunnel, take a peek

Raphael’s feet have been itching to follow the sound. He can see the lights of the Stateroom filtering out onto the abandoned sidewalk below where he stands on the edge of the roof. He can see the shadows of his clan, swaying to the sounds of Simon’s guitar.

There’s a breeze, but he doesn’t feel it. There’s the scent of strangers on the wind and the sound of the city is all around him, but Raphael can’t sense any of it. He feels only that longing for sunlight, tugging him downwards, urging him on. Into the the stairwell, down, down, along the hall… He moves at speeds only a vampire could, but it takes too long . There’s a hole in his chest and a song in the air and he needs to reach it before it’s gone.

Just call up your friends at the front desk

Any hour at the front desk

Simon hears footsteps, but can’t make out who they belong to over the sound of the guitar and his own voice. He’s really got to work on his vampy senses. He should have heard whoever it was wake up, let alone get this close to him.

For a moment he wonders who’s going to round the corner and find him hiding in the alcove.

When it’s Raphael he’s surprised to find himself… unsurprised. And, more remarkably, unafraid.

He looks in Raphael’s face, properly for the first time since that horrible day a few long months ago. The features look exactly as he remembers them in that moment, but the expression is totally different. There’s something startling there, something deep and searching. Something that looks like fear, or possibly hope.

Call up your friends at the Grand Hotel

It’s him. Of course, it’s him, Raphael already knew that. But it’s different to know than to see.

He’s tucked into a weird shape, trying to fit all his limbs plus a guitar into a small alcolve. The leg his instrument isn’t resting on is bouncing wildly, out of time. Whether the motion is powered by nerves or simply pent up energy, Raphael doesn’t know.

Simon looks up, from the guitar as Raphael nears, fingers not pausing, voice not faltering. His eyes meet Raphael’s, and they’re full of the same light they’ve always been. Of course they are. And Simon and Raphael look at one another, both seem to be asking the same question. For a moment, Raphael isn’t sure if they get the same answer.

Suddenly, Simon’s face breaks into a wide smile, and it looks like a sunrise. It feels like a sunrise. Raphael can’t help it: He smiles back.

You'll always have friends at the Grand Hotel

The End.

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