1,288 words! And that's not counting the author's note! There will be more very soon, it's all already written and divided into chapters and all... Every chapter is over a thousand words, and there will be seven chapters. Total, there's over eight thousand. I think it was 8,566 or something.

This was originally meant to be a one-shot... and then it got longer... and longer... and I couldn't end it without fixing Ron and 'Mione... and it got longer... and longer... So I made chapters. And I'm contemplating a sequel.

Pairings: Ron/Hermione, Draco/Harry (mostly D/H, they're so cuuuute!)

Warnings: Slashiness ahead, stay away if you don't like that. Straight relationship ahead, stay away if you don't like that. Spellchecked, but not beta-read, so forgive any mistakes. Flames will be used to warm my cold old bones...

Disclaimer: Don't own Harry. Don't own Ron. Don't own 'Mione. Don't own Draco. Don't own any of the characters that show up except for one in the last chapter.

On with the fic!

= = =

Soft blonde hair... cocked eyebrows... long lashes, for a boy... deep gray eyes... perfect nose... full lips... strong shoulders... trademark smirk... And he held a single sprig of lavender.

Draco frowned at the painting. It wasn't signed, and had been sent by one of the school owls. Who, though, who would know him so well as to catch the thoughts behind the smirk in a painting? Who could understand him like this?

He carefully folded the parchment and slipped it into his pocket.

= = =

Tears. Tears, this time. And still the signature lavender. Draco puzzled over the painting. No one's ever seen me cry, he thought. But not just crying. He was injured, as well, blood running down his scalp from a cut on his temple.

Unconsciously, Draco lifted his hand to the scar on his temple. How did this person know, whoever it was--whoever she was, since she obviously liked him. Draco slipped the painting into his pocket, intending to put it with the others in his dresser--in the hexed drawer--later, after breakfast.

Draco glanced at the Gryffindor table and frowned. Potter was staring at him, his eyes curious. Not hostile, not glaring, just curious. Draco thought he noticed a bit of a blush before the other boy managed a sufficient death-look and turned away.

= = =

Tears, a smirk, laughter, disgust, and pain. Draco looked at the five pictures, wondering how he would be able to find out who this person was. He felt maybe he'd like to talk to them before he found out, just to say he liked the paintings.

Silently, he crept out of bed and up to the Slytherin common room, out of the dungeons, through the corridors, out the front doors, across the grounds and into the Owlery. He clutched parchment and quill in his hand, and wrote a quick note.

I know you probably won't tell me who you are, so just answer these questions, please.

What House are you in?
How long have you been watching me?
Where did you learn to paint? They're beautiful, and I'm not just saying that because they're of me, even though I am lovely. You could make a pile of dragon dung look beautiful.

Will you ever tell me who you are?

Why do you always show me holding lavender? It's my favorite scent, but no one knows that but me.

Thank you,

Draco Malfoy

Draco pulled one of the paintings from his pocket, rolled up his note, and stuffed his quill in his pocket while looking around at the owls to find the one that had brought him his pictures every time. There it was--a barn owl, asleep on its roost. Draco poked it gently, trying to awaken it, and finally, it opened an indignant eye, as if to say, What do you want? I was sleeping...

Draco showed the bird the picture. "See this?" he whispered. "I want you to take this," he tied his note onto the owl's leg, "to the person who sent you this." He held up the picture again. "Do you understand?" He shivered, wishing he'd brought a cloak. The owl nipped his finger and took off, out the open ceiling.

Shivering, Draco made his way back to his dormitory and slept.

= = =

Shivering.

Shivering and blue-lipped, Draco hugged himself as he walked slowly across the grounds. Draco could practically see himself move as he stared at the painting. He turned it over, looking for a note, and a piece of parchment fluttered to the floor.

You're right, Draco--if I may call you such--I won't tell you who I am, or what House I'm in, except that it isn't Slytherin. Nice try, though. Yes, you are lovely; I've been watching you since I met you on the train in our first year. I learned to paint by sitting in my room and painting--birds, trees, what I see out my window. I'm glad you liked my paintings, but no one could make dragon dung beautiful. Maybe, someday, I'll tell you who I am, but not now. The lavender is because I saw you once in Greenhouse One, where the Muggle plants and the tamer magical plants are, holding a sprig of lavender and just looking so... beautiful, I had to paint it. I meant to do that next, but I saw you making your way back from the Owlery and I did that instead. I was awake almost all night working on it, and I thought it wouldn't be dry soon enough to send it this morning. I don't mind--I wasn't going to sleep anyway.

Love,

Unsigned

Draco frowned. 'Unsigned' was an unusual, if not creative, pen name. Before the owl could fly off, he wrote out a reply.

Thank you for answering, I wasn't sure you would. Yes, you can call me Draco, but I must have something to call you other than 'Unsigned.' This bloody owl's about to fly off, so I better wrap it up, but first tell me--why do you not sleep at night?

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

Draco attached the note to the owls leg and whispered, "Take it to them in their dormitory," before letting it leave. Miffed, the bird soared up and away, one of the last to leave the Hall.

= = =

This one, this one was imagined, surely. Draco was certain--well, almost certain--that he'd never smiled gratefully in all his time at Hogwarts.

Draco turned the painting over, catching the parchment that fluttered down before it hit the floor.

I would come running if you whistled, but for the fact that I cannot let you know who I am. It always comes down to that, doesn't it? Call me... call me Alone, because that is what I am--alone and unloved, with little hope save for you. You brighten my day, Draco Malfoy, and I love you for it. I don't mind saying that, but if you knew who I was, I wouldn't dare.

When you see me, I don't appear to be alone. I have good friends, but I want more than that. I want love. I want someone to whom I can tell all my deepest secrets and fears. No one knows me enough to truly love me, and even if they do, they don't love me the way I want to be loved. Only you can help me there--I would have no other.

I don't sleep much at nights. I sleep best when I dream of you, but alas!--those nights are rare. Heh... I guess I'm sounding like some old mystic... thing, aren't I? I can't help it--when I'm talking to you, everything comes out like poetry.

This is my first painting of you. It was around Christmas of our second year, so I apologize if it isn't up to scratch. There's mo more time for me to write--I have to pay attention, or --something was crossed out here-- one of my friends will kill me.

Love,

Alone

Draco frowned.

Somehow, I get the feeling that you aren't a girl. It doesn't matter to me--I'm bisexual, did you know that?--but something in the way you write comes off as completely male. Tell me, please, if I'm right.

I don't want you to be alone. Somehow, through your paintings perhaps, I find myself loving you. But, as I love you, I find myself hurting when I think of your pain. Don't hurt anymore, because when you hurt, I hurt.

Love,

Draco Malfoy

He pocketed the painting--him, sitting in a greenhouse beside a lavender bush, a sprig of the stuff twirling between his fingers--and sent the letter off with the owl.