The sky was dark, and Draco stared out at the stars, sipping at his beer, listening to Krum brag. Despite everything he had been through in the past ten hours, he wasn’t tired. His body was exhausted and still in no small amount of pain, but he didn’t want to go to sleep. Hermione had been sleeping peacefully in the makeshift infirmary the last time he’d seen her, on his limping way downstairs. Longbottom had swept up out of nowhere, grinning like an idiot, and shoved a bottle into Draco’s hand. He’d insisted that Draco come sit out on the porch with the rest of them, and clapped him on the back – which had fucking hurt like hell – and said: "You’re not half bad, Malfoy."