Harry tries to remember that part. Hanging back in the common room late at night, lounging across the red velvet sofa because it’d been his favourite: the one in front of the windows that looked down onto the Quidditch pitch. Sometimes he’d be with friends, sometimes he’d be alone, sipping Butterbeer or whisky snuck into the castle from the village, the honeyed smell of it tickling his nose, reminding him of Sirius. How he’d just lie there and listen to the radio or Dean’s CD player and stare: at the sky, at classmates playing chess, at the door, waiting for Draco and Theo to return from the library, both of their heads down, their arms full of books because at that point, no one else was carrying them for Draco. At that point, Draco had taken to carrying everything himself.