It’d been a lousy Portkey trip. He’d been hanging like a bat, all out of hangover potion, and he’d woken up to a string of texts from Draco, each one more baffling than the last. Goodbye, Harry had felt so—dramatic, so finite, and despite texting Draco since, despite calling him a knob for insinuating they wouldn’t see each other again for eight months, Harry hasn’t heard from him since. Not a word. Not a bloody lick. No indication, even, that Draco had arrived home safe and sound. That, Harry had to find out from stalking his WixApp timestamps. 