Harry does. He remembers it clearly: the tense, confidential conversations he’d had with the Ministry to get Draco’s finance application over the line. How, during those four years after the fact, he’d catch glimpses of Draco at Andromeda’s: out reading medical textbooks in her garden, passing through the liminal spaces of her home, always on his way to something—a lesson, the hospital, the shower, bed. How he’d never really seen Draco, only bits and pieces of him, all blurred, all surreal, all rushed. Tall and pale and irritable and so very beautiful, so very out of Harry’s fumbling grasp. 