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Summary
So they stand on the balcony and Malfoy smokes. Harry keeps tracing the movement of the cigarette from his fingertips to his mouth. The way his lips form a little ‘o’ as he exhales the smoke. Harry isn’t drunk, but he’s tipsy enough to not want to mess around anymore. He just wants to know. “So,” he starts, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”
Malfoy looks at him. A slow type of amusement pulls up the right corner of his mouth. It’s a rare thing, now—one of the expressions on Malfoy’s face Harry knows from before. It fills him with a mindless sense of anticipation.
—Harry grows with the turn of the tide. Draco contends with his ghosts.
A chronicle of inevitability.
