The rain had been falling since dawn, steady and cold, blurring the lake into a sheet of shifting silver. You’d followed the narrow path from the lane, past the low stone wall, past the weathered sign that only said Private in faint runes. His cottage appeared in pieces—first the chimney smoke, then the dark roofline through the mist.

You weren’t expecting to find him outside.

But there he was, sleeves rolled past his forearms, kneeling in the mud beside a broom shed that looked on the verge of collapse. A wool coat hung open over an ink-stained jumper, hood dripping rainwater. His hair—paler than you remembered, almost the same tone as the mist—fell untidily into his eyes as he adjusted a plank with deliberate care.

He didn’t turn when your boots crunched on the gravel.

“Lost?” His voice carried without effort, low and edged, as if he’d already decided the answer.

You stopped a few paces away, rain gathering at your collar. “Looking for Draco Malfoy.”

He straightened, favoring his left leg as he stood. At that, something flickered—annoyance, recognition, and something more guarded beneath. “It’s just Draco here,” he said.

The wind caught his coat; you caught the faintest outline of a wand holster under his sleeve. His gaze swept over you like he was checking for concealed hexes. “You’ve come a long way in the rain to stand on my doorstep.”

“I’m here about the guardianship,” you replied.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not amusement, not warmth, but the sort of expression that might become either with effort. “Of course you are.”

The shed door behind him shifted under a charm, sealing itself against the weather. He brushed past you toward the cottage without offering to take your coat, without even checking if you’d follow. But the door stayed open just long enough for you to step inside.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of bergamot and woodsmoke. A kettle hummed low in the kitchen. There were books stacked in untidy towers, a pair of child-sized boots drying near the hearth. It felt less like the home of the Draco Malfoy you’d heard about, and more like somewhere a man had been trying to hide—and had failed, at least partly.

He didn’t sit. He stood by the window, one hand absently touching the cuff of his left sleeve, eyes fixed on the shifting rain.

“You should know,” he said finally, “I didn’t ask for this.”

You wondered if he meant the guardianship, the rain, or the conversation itself.