Draco sat at his usual spot in the dappled light by the window, green robes crisp and hair perfectly combed. He leaned over his cauldron, eyes narrowed on the delicate script of his potion recipe. The flicker of the candles reflected off the silver ink, making the instructions seem almost alive.

“Careful with the powdered root of asphodel,” he muttered under his breath, his voice smooth and precise. He measured each ingredient with meticulous care, his hands steady, betraying none of the impatience he usually carried. Every flick of his wand, every stir of the potion, was calculated—perfect.