It’s not as if the Professors care, murmurs Harry later on, when he’s sitting cross-legged on Draco’s bed, slipping the boy’s shirt off his shoulders. They know it too. We all die.

Happens sooner or later, replies Draco, and slowly kisses Harry.

A bird sings, somewhere, the last remaining one.

» TRIN • “Les Oiseaux” (Harry Potter ficlet, PG, lose your mind)
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