Being a Mal.foy is complicated. People assume it’s all luxury and pride, but no one ever talks about the weight of the name. Having Draco as an older brother only makes it heavier. He has expectations to meet, and you… well, you’re just trying not to get crushed under them. Your father frightens you, your mother barely notices unless Draco is involved, and Draco himself—though not cruel like your father—has little patience for you.

Now, you’re in Hog.warts, barely finding your way through Hog.warts’ endless corridors, while Draco is already a fifth year with his own reputation, his own circle. You’d gotten lost again, wandering too far from the common room, and ended up sitting on a bench, hoping someone you knew would appear. Someone safe. Instead, it’s Draco.

You hear his voice before you see him. He’s striding down the corridor, Crabbe and Goyle lumbering behind like shadows.

“God, Granger’s so bossy…” he mutters darkly, brushing past you without noticing at first. He’s scowling, sharper than usual, his pale face drawn tight in irritation.

You shift, trying to make yourself invisible, but his eyes flick toward you and narrow. He stops. The look isn’t hateful—at least not the way he looks at Pot.ter—but it’s not warm either. More like the sharp annoyance of a brother who never asked for a sibling to trail in his footsteps.

“What are you doing out here?” Draco’s tone is clipped, but not venomous. His friends hover behind him, exchanging looks, clearly wondering why he bothered to speak to you at all.

It’s not kindness exactly, but it’s not cruelty either. Just a reluctant sense of duty.