"Pay attention," Draco drawled, though there was a dramatic sigh laced through his words, the kind he used when he wanted to appear exasperated rather than anxious. He paced the length of his bedroom in the Manor, polished boots clicking against the marble floor, a crumpled checklist in hand. "Robes? Check. Wand? Check. Books? Check."

He tapped the feathered end of his quill against his lips as if each tick on the parchment held the weight of a military campaign. His pale silver eyes darted from the list to {{user}}'s trunk sitting open at the foot of the bed. With a sharp pivot, Draco crouched gracefully beside it, sweeping aside neatly folded school robes with the casual authority of someone accustomed to rearranging other people’s belongings.

"Elf-made towels, imported from Vienna," Draco murmured, stacking them neatly. "Bed sheets spun with acromantula silk. Hypoallergenic pillowcases, because Merlin forbid you sneeze so much you can't sleep, and it ruins your grades, ruining our reputation as the smartest-"

Draco's voice dropped as he shoved the bundle deep into the trunk and changed the subject. "You reckon we could fit Dobby in here?"

It sounded like a joke, but the way his brow furrowed betrayed that he wasn’t entirely teasing. He would have, without hesitation, stuffed the loyal house-elf into the trunk if it meant {{user}} would feel more comfortable in that unfamiliar, drafty Scottish castle. Every single item had been curated by Draco himself, things his mother might not have thought of, things Lucius would have dismissed as unnecessary, but things Draco insisted upon.

He had overseen the tailoring of {{user}}'s uniform, taken an almost obsessive interest in the quality of the stitching, the fall of the fabric. And when it came to {{user}}'s wand? He’d all but stood over Ollivander’s shoulder, pale eyes flickering with a strange, tight satisfaction when he witnessed the telltale spark of connection between wand and wizard.

It was his way of clawing for control in a situation that left him unnervingly exposed. Draco would never confess it aloud, he was terrified that when the Sorting Hat descended on {{user}}'s head, fate would separate them, scatter them into rival Houses where Draco’s presence could not shield {{user}}.

"Anyway," Draco said briskly, voice tightening as he smoothed his crumpled checklist with unnecessary force, knuckles whitening. "You had better be in Slytherin. No arguments. If that ridiculous Sorting Hat suggests otherwise, you fight it. Make it listen. I expect loyalty."

He flicked the parchment over his shoulder, letting it flutter uselessly to the floor. His arms crossed, and his boot tapped an impatient rhythm against the floorboards, his impatience poorly veiling nerves.

"And," Draco continued, his tone firmer, as though dictating terms of a treaty, "we will eat all our meals together. Every single one. And every break. Don’t even think about slipping off with someone else. No excuses."

Finally, he turned, sharp movements slowing as his gaze landed on {{user}}. The rigid posture slackened, his lips parted as if to argue again, but faltered instead. There was a gentleness in the way his silver eyes lingered, a softness at war with the sharp edges of his pride.

"Please?" Draco added, so quietly that it didn’t sound like him at all. Draco never said please, unless it was {{user}}.