Suddenly, Harry came to doubt whether Draco had been right; if Harry had in fact been more feverish than he realized.<br/>As Draco moved onto him, the room felt wobbly, a trick of the mind. Dressed in his dress shirt and trousers, hair pulled back to the nape of his neck, Harry felt a sense of deja vu that was entirely unfounded. With the flash of green of a Slytherin banner still adorning the bedroom wall behind Draco, Quidditch posters still on the pinboard, Harry could for a moment believe they were kids again and could have been spared a war, and that Harry could have had a decade more of just this.<br/>It was a false memory wedged into a real youth, superimposing a flicker of juvenile joy onto the hardest years of Harry’s life. When Draco kissed him, it was a sense of resolve Harry felt, a knot deep within him that had come undone. He clutched at the chest of Draco’s shirt with near desperation, the kiss catharticism and absolution.