Harry finds his moment when Draco is heading towards him from the bar, identical drinks in each hand—lime cordial and soda water, Harry thinks, or maybe a fancy mocktail this time, because Draco has finally gotten tired of Harry’s whinging—his expression cool and easy as he weaves through the crowd, the grids of deck chairs, the sun loungers. He’s a bright spot amongst a blur of colour, and as he gets closer, Harry pushes himself to sit and beckons him over with a wave.