Mulled wine tasted of Christmas.
It tasted of happiness.
It tasted of Harry.
Draco stared into the burgundy depths of his glass, waiting impatiently for the elves to finish the Christmas feast. He and Harry had been together for twelve years, and suddenly, they just . . . weren't.
Harry had committed the ultimate act of betrayal, yet somehow, Draco was the one feeling guilty for it.
It wasn't fair.
"Do you know who else is no longer involved?" Narcissa Malfoy purred, sitting in the armchair across from her son. When he didn't answer, she added, "Astoria Greengrass. Her husband died. Isn't that wonderful?"
"Yes, a joyous occasion for all," Draco muttered.
"Next week is Ardinius and Dienna's anniversary party, actually. If you came along, perhaps you and Astoria may find some time to get to know each other?"
Draco glared at her.
"Is there more wine?"
"Draco . . . you have to move on someday. You know that, don't you?"
"I asked if there was more wine."