Draco thinks about it. He thinks about having Harry in school like he’d wanted him back then: sweet and boy-scented, fresh from the pitch, the two of them beneath the hard and hot spray of the changing room showers, skin slippery, mouths eager. Wrestling in the duelling room, their wands tossed aside and their hands down each other’s trousers. In bed in Eighth Year, in the dead of night, a secluded place they could call their own.  He even indulges the more lovesick part of his heart that had died off years ago, thinking about what Harry could be like as a lover who is also a friend and who might hold Draco’s face in his hands and give him everything, and take everything too because that is what Draco used to believe he wanted most in the world.