He gulped down more firewhiskey, choking on the stuff. It fuzzed reality at the edges, and made it all a little more bearable. Move on – now that was a fucking joke. Hermione, Draco hoped despite his selfishness, would do so, but him? He had nothing to move on to, nothing to ever look forward to. If they won the damn war, Draco could look forward to prison, most likely, and then the lovely experience of being penniless and ostracised by wizarding society. If they lost, he’d be dead, along with Hermione and everyone else. No, the post-war future was not a pleasant place. It was lucky then, that Draco probably wouldn’t live that long. It was a macabre sort of luck, if he could even call it that, but it was all Draco could reasonably expect.