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Summary
Potter is utterly livid. He turns on himself, but stops at the door’s skirt. There’s a beat of silence and Draco doesn’t look, clamps his eyes shut, holds his breath. Potter says it on an exhale, so that it rings true and honest and crystal clear to Draco’s ears.
“You’re not worth it, anyway.”
It’s another blow to the head, a contravention with Draco’s name on it, a new poison to be served at breakfast. Draco doesn’t think he could shrink into himself any further if he tried. Potter walks away and he must be halfway gone already when Draco hears him say, low and resentful, in a manner that reminds him of his own father.
“Your father said: forgive me.”
—
Or: Draco does time in Azkaban. The aftermath is legendary.