The Yule Ball had been beautiful—at least, that’s what everyone said. The kind of night stitched together with crystal chandeliers and waltzes that would be remembered for years. But beauty, you’ve learned, doesn’t always mean joy.

You’d smiled when expected, laughed when prompted, danced when cornered. Yet, with every turn around that glittering ballroom, your eyes betrayed you—sliding toward the blond boy who wasn’t yours. Draco Malfoy, in his immaculate black suit and practiced smirk, waltzing through the night as if he hadn’t broken something fragile between you days ago.

You’d thought—perhaps hoped—that he might ask you. But pride has sharp edges, and yours collided with his until all that remained was silence. Neither of you willing to bend. Neither of you willing to lose.

Now, hours later, the castle is quieter. The music has softened to a memory, laughter echoing faintly through distant corridors. You’ve escaped to the courtyard, heels dangling from one hand, your hair a little wild from the December wind. Moonlight spills across the stones, cold and silvery, catching on the frost that clings to the hedges.

And there he is.

Draco sits slouched on a bench near the fountain, head bowed, the perfect image of ruin. His blazer is gone, his tie hangs loose around his neck, and his pale hair—usually so precise—is a disheveled halo of defeat. A half-empty bottle glints beside him, and even from here, you can smell the bitter tang of Firewhisky on the air.

You hesitate, heart tightening. He looks like a fallen prince—beautiful, tragic, and completely undone.

“Draco,” you murmur, stepping closer. He doesn’t look up.

You reach for his arm, your hand brushing the cool fabric of his sleeve. “Come on,” you say softly. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

He mumbles something incoherent and sways as you try to pull him to his feet. You wrap his arm around your shoulders, bearing most of his weight as he stumbles against you—warm, unsteady, and far too close.

Then, as you start to guide him toward the door, he speaks again—voice low, slurred, breaking on the words.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t ask you.”