Actually though, it didn't take all that much to work out that Draco was always going back to the same place, the same place he'd spent most of Sixth Yeah as well: The Room of Requirement. After just a week or so of surveillance, Harry got into the habit of dashing up to the corridor where the room was hidden whenever Malfoy made a move to leave, camping out under the cloak to wait for him to come and walk three times back and forth to create the particular space he needed.

He was sick with worry thinking about what he could be up to in there, and debated informing McGonagall on more than one occasion. But he didn't want to start throw around accusations without any real proof, so he made up his mind to try and get inside to catch Malfoy in the act first, a feat he finally achieved on his third day loitering outside the room with no short amount of skill.

When Malfoy had yanked the door open to head inside, he'd released his grip and let the door fall shut behind him. But Harry had cast a quick Deprimo charm so that a gust of wind seemingly pulled the door back a little further, and Harry used that as his chance to slip inside as Malfoy turned and frowned at it. Harry held his breath, but Malfoy just shrugged and continued on into the room, which Harry now turned to take in.

He'd expected it to be the Room of Hidden Things, but then he'd realised with a jolt that that had been destroyed by the fiendfyre. Did that mean it and all its contents were gone for good? Harry didn't get time to ponder much though, as he was distracted by the sight that actually met him, and he stopped in surprise.

It was a large but simple room, with wooden floorboards and panelling on the walls. There were no paintings or curtains or any other kind of ornamentation, and no furniture save from a long, velvet covered stool and a small table next to it with stacks of parchment on it. And in front of that was a mammoth, gleaming black, grand piano.

Harry blinked. Of everything he had envisaged over the past few days, this had not been one of the scenarios, not even close. He'd imagined Malfoy working on some new plot to avenge his father or destroy the school once and for all. He'd pictured him coming in here to scream or cry in private, or even hurt himself. For half an hour he'd even thought about him doing something infinitely more private, but once he'd realised what he was actually visualising he'd snapped himself out of that particular image with horror, and had had to go mentally rinse his mind out.

This though? He wasn't even sure what this was?

Malfoy though seemed perfectly at ease as he walked over to the piano and graced his hand along the shining edge of the instrument, before sitting down and cracking his knuckles. He pressed down on a few experimental chords, before running his fingers up and down the keys in tandem, playing one scale and then another.

Harry wasn't sure what to do with himself. He couldn't very well open the door again without Malfoy noticing, so he just moved to the edge of the room and sat down with his legs crossed, careful not to let the cloak slip and expose himself as he leaned back against the wall. He might as well get comfy if he was stuck here.

He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved. What on Earth was Malfoy doing in here playing the piano? He wasn't sure what to make of it, and he felt frustrated as the scales continued, starting on different notes each time. Harry didn't know anything at all about music aside from what he picked up from his friends' tastes – Dean had a pretty good collection of Muggle rock music that he played on vinyl records sometimes, and Molly Weasley like to inflict Celestina Warbeck on them at Christmas, but other than that Harry couldn't say music was a big part of his life.

Malfoy paused in his mechanical succession of notes and rolled his shoulders, before leaning over to flick through the parchment that was stacked up to his left. Harry realised it was sheet music, and felt relieved Malfoy might be about to play something more interesting. After being so concerned something insidious was going on, his new worry was how long he was going to have to stay here and just how bored he was going to get.

But that was before Malfoy started playing.

Harry wasn't sure when he sat forwards, or the exact moment his jaw eased open so it was hanging in awe. But it didn't take long to work out that Malfoy was a beautiful player, with each piece he selected more enjoyable than the last. Harry had no idea how long they spent in the secret room, only that he was numb by the time Malfoy finally called it a day after finishing by playing Harry's favourite piece yet. He found himself blinking as Malfoy smiled and stretched, his face looking somehow lighter than when he had come into the room. He rubbed the top of the instrument fondly and sighed with a nod. He looked...happy? Harry wasn't entirely sure what to make of that.

So that was that then, he was just coming in here to play and let off steam, or re-centre or something? Yeah, Harry supposed he could understand that. If he was honest with himself as he watched Malfoy leave and shut the door behind him, he himself was probably the most relaxed he'd been since he'd come back to school. His felt loose despite the ache in his legs and back.

He gave it a few minutes before leaving the room himself, and walked back to Gryffindor Tower thoughtfully. He had nothing to worry about then, he could just carry on with whatever he had been doing before he'd decided Malfoy had been up to no good again. But he realised with a sinking sensation that nothing really came to mind when he tried to remember what he'd been doing before, certainly nothing that made him feel excited or happy. He chewed his lip, what did that mean then?