It was the same every year. The same speeches, the same bullshit. People who weren't there or didn't understand talking about tragedy and togetherness like it meant something. Not that Draco had any right to complain. Not that that stopped him.
He nearly hadn't come. Like every year. But like every year he did. Partially because it would look bad if he didn't and his family name didn't need another stain on it thanks. Partially because, well, because it was tradition. And speak of the devil, here came Potter now. Draco tried to look like he hadn't been waiting for him, even though he obviously had been
"Potter." He flashed a small, crooked smile and slouched against a tree. "Another round of the same old. I'm alright. You?"
It was hard to tell with Potter. Once Draco had memorized every single facial expression, every movement. But it had been years since they were at school, and this Harry wasn't the same as he was back then. Draco wasn't either, come to that. But Potter looked rougher. More, haunted, for lack of a better word. The quiet voice in the back of his brain said Draco should do something about that. Draco never listened to it though.