It wasn't hard for Harry to find a Slytherin—in fact, it was almost painfully easy. But the part of his quest that he couldn't quite seem to fulfill was for that Slytherin to let him into the Slytherin common room, or at least tell Blaise to meet him outside of the dungeon wall.

So with a weary sigh, he allowed himself to slide down the wall in a corridor not far away from where most Slytherins trafficked to wait for a familiar voice.

All he was met with was empty silence.

He stared absently at the backs of his hands, admiring the scars that kept from the Blood Quills he had used less than a year ago with a solemn frown.

"…so that's when I told him, 'Blaise, I don't care what you have to say, it's time to listen to me now, okay?'" he heard Daphne say from down the hall.

He leapt to his feet and ran in her direction.

"He was very clearly abashed, so I felt rather bad, but…" Daphne was telling Hannah Abbot. "Oh, hello Harry," she said congenially when she saw him.

"I need to talk to Blaise," Harry said. "Right now, if at all possible."

"'Hello to you too, Daphne, nice to see you'," she replied. He merely rolled his eyes and waited for her response. "I suppose I can let you into the common room, as long as you promise to cover your ears as I say the password."

Hannah giggled at Daphne's antics, and Harry took notice of the girl. He smiled in greeting, and was met by a cocked eyebrow in response.

"…so cover your ears," Daphne insisted.

Harry did so, and they were soon entering the Slytherin common room.

"Not too many snakes about; you're very lucky, Harry," Hannah told him. The common room was indeed empty, which Harry counted as a small blessing.

"Blaise's dorm is up those stairs, third door on the right," Daphne informed him, before starting up the opposite staircase with Hannah in hand.

"Thank you," Harry called to her before she disappeared in the hallway after the steps.

She waved back in acknowledgement.

Once in Blaise's dorm, he found that Blaise was not there, but instead Malfoy. Harry groaned in dismay. "Sorry, I thought this was Blaise's room," he said civilly, while thinking back as to which door he had picked—was it the third or the fourth?

"No, it is," Draco said politely back.

"Ah," was all that Harry said.

"I was just leaving, actually," Draco continued morosely. He got up off of the bed he was seated on and went to the door. Before passing Harry, as if suddenly remembering who he was and who Harry was, he turned and sneered. "What is it, Scarhead? Your special Gryffindors not good enough for you now? You've finally realized that Slytherin is the best house?"

Harry gritted his teeth. "Just get out, Malfoy," he replied.

Draco did so, but not without another withering glare, leaving Harry all by himself. "Well," Harry said to himself with resolve, "I'll just wait here until Blaise gets back. After all, everyone has to sleep eventually."

The room was relatively empty. There were only three beds in the dorm anyway, which was two beds less than Harry's dorm, which was full of his dormmates' things strewn about every which way. Two of the beds weren't even made, the sheets and comforter folded up into neat little squares that rested upon the white mattress. The one bed that was covered Harry supposed had to be Blaise's.

At the foot of the bed was a tawny trunk, that appeared to be padlocked, and beside the bed was a nightstand with a clock on it. Next to the clock was a worn, blue book. On its cover was no lettering that told the title or the author's name, and Harry walked over to it curiously.

He traced the book's spine with his forefinger and flipped it open, his eyes meeting many blank pages before finally falling to a page with something scrawled upon the middle of the page. It was in the same handwriting that had written him all of his poems—so he knew that the book had been written in by Blaise.

It read:


He traced the calligraphy A's ink, feeling the dips and rises where the quill had put more pressure and less pressure upon the parchment.

He flipped to the next page.

Brown-thrush singing all day long
In the leaves above me,
Take my love this April song,
"Love me, love me, love me!"

When he harkens what you say,
Bid him, lest he miss me,
Leave his work or leave his play,
And kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!

- Sara Teasdale

Harry's mouth curved into a smile. He flipped through a few more pages before settling upon another.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory—
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

- Percy Bysshe Shelley

"Love itself shall slumber on," Harry breathed. What a lovely sentiment, he thought. He smoothed out the dog-eared corner before moving on.

Ah Dearest, canst thou tell me why
The Rose should be so pale?
And why the azure Violet
Should wither in the vale?
And why the Lark should, in the cloud,
So sorrowfully sing?
And why from loveliest balsam-buds
A scent of death should spring?
And why the Sun upon the mead
So chillingly should frown?
And why the Earth should, like a grave,
Be mouldering and brown?
And why is it that I, myself,
So languishing should be?
And why is it, my Heart-of-Hearts,
That thou forsakest me?

- Heinrich Heine

"But I didn't," Harry whispered to the page, blinking away surprised burning tears. "I swear I didn't know." So as to save himself from more tears, he skipped a few more pages, to where he hoped it would be happy again.

At last, when all the summer shine
That warmed life's early hours is past,
Your loving fingers seek for mine
And hold them close—at last—at last!
Not oft the robin comes to build
Its nest upon the leafless bough
By autumn robbed, by winter chilled,—
But you, dear heart, you love me now.

Though there are shadows on my brow
And furrows on my cheek, in truth,—
The marks where Time's remorseless plough
Broke up the blooming sward of Youth,—
Though fled is every girlish grace
Might win or hold a lover's vow,
Despite my sad and faded face,
And darkened heart, you love me now!

I count no more my wasted tears;
They left no echo of their fall;
I mourn no more my lonesome years;
This blessed hour atones for all.
I fear not all that Time or Fate
May bring to burden heart or brow,—
Strong in the love that came so late,
Our souls shall keep it always now!

- Elizabeth Akers Allen

Harry wiped away a tear from the edge of his chin.

Since I lost you, my darling, the sky has come near,
And I am of it, the small sharp stars are quite near,
The white moon going among them like a white bird among snow-berries,
And the sound of her gently rustling in heaven like a bird I hear.

And I am willing to come to you now, my dear,
As a pigeon lets itself off from a cathedral dome
To be lost in the haze of the sky, I would like to come,
And be lost out of sight with you, and be gone like foam.

For I am tired, my dear, and if I could lift my feet,
My tenacious feet from off the dome of the earth
To fall like a breath within the breathing wind
Where you are lost, what rest, my love, what rest!

- D.H. Lawrence

Harry turned to the back of the book, to see many pages were ripped out. He instead found the last page written on.

Should I had never held you
And have no hard regret
Perhaps we would go on
And I you could forget

But you I love too much
Distraught that day should be
I would forget my love
What a bitter elegy

- B. Zabini

"I'm a pretty pathetic poet," said a voice from behind Harry. Harry whirled around, frightened, and dropped the book in the process.

Blaise stood behind him.

Blaise strode towards him and picked up the book from the ground.

"Sorry," Harry apologized quickly, "I didn't mean to pry—I just saw it sitting there and I…well…I mean…"

Blaise set the book down in its place on the nightstand and took Harry's face in his hands. He cupped the stuttering boy's cheeks and ran his thumbs across his tear-wetted skin.

"I really like you, Harry," Blaise told him.

"I really like you too, Blaise," Harry returned, now grinning ear to ear. His glasses slipped down his nose slightly, and Blaise pushed them back up for him. "Thanks," he said.

"I think you're a lovely poet, actually," Harry told him.

"You're just saying that because you're my boyfriend," Blaise retorted, playfully running his hand through Harry's hair.

"Am I really?" Harry asked hopefully. His eyes dropped from Blaise's eyes to his lips.

"I think you are. Are you?" Blaise asked, eyes having an edge of worry.

"I would very much like to be," Harry returned his gaze to Blaise's eyes. "Would you?"

"Yes, I think I would," Blaise replied thoughtfully.

"I have something to confess," Harry whispered to him.

"What?" Blaise brought his ear closer to Harry's mouth.

"I don't think we ever stopped."

And they sealed it with a kiss.

*beams!* Et fin! I really, really hope you guys enjoy this last chapter, because I really enjoyed writing it. Thank you for those of you who have followed from the beginning or picked it up from somewhere in the middle. Lots of hugs for all of you!

Have a super lovely day!