Fleece robes.
He had never heard of anything more ridiculous. Fleece was a Muggle material. It was inferior, it was cheap, it was . . . cozy.
Draco was staring at the hanging robes, shivering, pondering whether or not he could stand to wear them. It was nearly Christmas again, and he hadn't dared to wear them ever since the incident.
Perhaps, it had been long enough. Perhaps, he was moving on. Perhaps, he just missed Harry.
He groaned and slammed the closet door. More than two years later, he was still just as brokenhearted as he had been when he first discovered Harry's "little slipup."
The more Draco thought about it, the more he found he was slamming everything. Doors. Drawers. Cupboards. Nothing was safe from his rage, because he was aching, and everything else deserved to ache too.
How dare Harry . . . do what he did?
Draco couldn't even bring himself to think the word.
Furious, he pulled on his jacket. He was finally going to give Harry Potter a piece of his mind.