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Draco slides down the silk duvet of his bed, green folds trailing behind him. If it weren’t so serious, Harry would have burst out laughing at the ‘plop’ he makes as he lands next to him. As it is, Harry catches the twitch of Blaise’s lip (the one side Draco couldn’t see), and his inner child revels in the validation.
Draco pauses, gives Harry his patented ‘tired of your shit’ look, then gets on with it.
“We are gathered here today to call it like it is: we’re fucked. So fucked, in fact, that our little mortal minds can’t even begin to comprehend the amount of fuckery that will forever be associated with us.”
“Excuse you, I’m part Veela—I plan to live forever off the souls of the hot,” is the only platitude any of them can think to say, and even then, they all know Blaise has had his death pre-planned since he learned he could die.
He had a weird childhood.
“And Harry survived Death twice.”
“Officially,” he can’t help but add.
Blaise’s eyebrows flick up before he gives an acquiescing nod. “Officially.”
Draco barks out a laugh. “With no idea what the fuck he was doing any of those times.”
Harry grimaces. “That is also... Very true.”