Oh, Harry thinks, sitting up straighter to shake Julian’s hand—his big, soft, warm hand—remembering, suddenly, how he’d grumpily sent Draco off in the middle of the night when he felt too sweaty and ill and ugly to be perceived by him. How he’d literally been dreaming of a younger Draco wandering lost around London Zoo, when Draco in real life had wandered right into the burly arms of this man; this man who looks like he’s been plucked straight from the pages of one of the stupid magazines gathering dust on Harry’s coffee table at home. 