Draco sat nervously at the Gryffindor table the next morning, his eyes fixed on the the doors, expecting Harry to enter at any moment. He still didn’t know what to say to him still - he didn’t even know if he could bring himself  too say anything, but he wouldn’t know until he saw him. The furious beast in his chest bounced between unhappily licking its wounds, and having detailed, intense mental arguments with Harry. He’d struggled to sleep the entire night because he couldn’t stop imaging their next confrontation - it was full of shouting on his half and grovelling on Harry’s. The funny thing was, he wasn’t even sure that that was what he wanted. He didn’t want to shout at Harry - he wanted to hold him and cry into his embrace. And he didn’t want Harry to grovel - he wanted an apology that was for sure - but he didn’t want him to beg and cry. The idea made him vaguely uncomfortable.