The Wizarding Award Scheme Programme (or W.A.S.P. for short)

7. The Sickle Drops...

'Professor Potter,' Blake said, as he threw himself down on the grass after the 'washing-up crew' had returned and packed everything away in the right boxes. 'Do you know any campfire songs?'

Draco stifled a snort, that would be fucking typical if the attractive git knew lots of entertaining songs and probably had a beautiful voice too to lull them all into a serene, relaxed state before bedtime. Not that he really needed anything to lull him to sleep, he was absolutely exhausted and had collapsed down under one of the trees slightly away from the fire. He didn't think he'd be able to move again for the rest of the night.

'Ah, well, no. that's not really my remit, plus I can't sing for toffee. But I might have the answer, with a bit of cooperation from Professor Malfoy, here.'

Draco startled out of his daze where he'd been watching the flames in the centre of the camp. 'What? What are you talking about?' he spluttered in a completely undignified manner. But Harry just smirked at him and somehow managed to levitate himself out of one of the impossibly low camping chairs in a most masculine fashion and disappeared into the tent.

When he emerged again, he was carrying a guitar.

Well, isn't it just typical that the smarmy git just happened to pack a guitar too? Bloody show off. And it was a bloody Fender. Bastard! It was like he was rubbing it in...

But Potter held it out to him and Draco felt the blood drain from his face as those beguiling green eyes looked pleadingly at him, the firelight reflected in the edges of his glasses, and eight little ragamuffins watched on eagerly.

He heard Jacob whistle and say, 'Wow! Professor Malfoy, do you play the guitar? Cool!'

'Not for a while,' he muttered.

Potter knew exactly how long that was, but he had to go and press all the wrong buttons, didn't he? It actually made Draco feel quite emotional.

'Potter?'

Harry shrugged, knowing he might be pushing Malfoy a little too far, but it was worth the risk. 'Look, just take the guitar and tune it and play around a bit.'

He watched Malfoy take it reluctantly and run his hands over the smooth glossy wood of the guitar's body, inspecting it and feeling the balance of the instrument in his hands. He saw Malfoy shrink inwards, disappearing into that awful moment just before Christmas. He knew that it was since then that the blond man hadn't played, hadn't even picked up a guitar, hadn't had a guitar to pick up.

Harry was in his DADA office off the Quadrangle when he heard the desolate cry. It made his heart clench and stomach knot. It reminded him of the war. More specifically, it reminded him of the death of loved ones and the ensuing grief.

He instinctually knew it came from Professor Malfoy's private apartments along the nearby corridor which lead to the dungeons and he was on his feet and running towards the sound before he even registered that his Auror training had kicked in and that he was on high alert, his senses registering a hundred details a second as he neared the quieter sound of broken weeping.

His heart was thundering, he'd left so fast that he didn't even have his wand on him.

He felt sick that he was straight back into this mentality of being under attack and was automatically establishing those defence practices, especially when he was in a place he now considered safe, despite the memories of war which still occasionally haunted his nightmares.

Ever thankful he'd mastered wandless magic during his training, he sent his Patronus soaring off to Minerva, despite not knowing what he was facing.