Draco called her down was too great. Not that his presence would change anything. He would eat his own shoes if he wasn’t on the train back to King’s Cross at the end of the summer. He mucked it up. But didn’t he always.

He resumed his walk of shame back towards his corridors. He would begin packing tonight. He didn’t know where he would go. Well, back to Grimmauld Place, obviously, but he didn’t know what he would do. The hope, or rather the fantasy, that Draco had wanted him, even in a small way, had really been one of the only thoughts he had taken solace in since the war. And now…and now he knew that Draco, alive and well- well, alive and breathing and better than dead, if not exactly well—wanted him but wouldn’t have him. Or wanted him, but not enough. Or had wanted him, at some point, but didn’t anymore.

He marvelled at the fact that it didn’t make him feel any better, to know that in some place and time of Draco Malfoy’s life, he had felt something for Harry. But he supposed that was because the knowledge made all of his imagined losses real. The awkward first few meals they would have shared after the war, both worried that the other was just going through the motions of being civil to help move along the post-war unity movement. The first few cautious touches that would lead them both to overthink, because surely, surely he hadn’t meant—But had he? And when they realized that the other had meant it, then they would be facing all the rebuilding they had to do, personally, globally, together instead of separately and so incredibly alone. And maybe they’d have fought, screamed at each other until they were hoarse, thrown things, made an absolute tip of Grimmauld Place with the small wars they waged every night, which was what everyone would have expected. But maybe they would have been happy. Harry liked to think they’d have been happy.

But Draco had been dead. He had been dead, so there was beyond a doubt no possibility of these thoughts being more than a fantasy. But now he was alive, and if only Draco wasn’t so scared, if only McGonagall wasn’t so careful, he could try. It didn’t have to work, but god, he wished they could try.

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