The Slytherin common room

It’s late. The kind of hour where the fire has died down to white ash and the shadows in the corners feel heavy, almost physical. You’re slumped in one of the high backed leather chairs, staring at the glass as a giant squid’s tentacle brushes lazily against the exterior. The silence is absolute until a heavy door swings open with a dull thud.

Draco doesn't walk in, he practically stumbles. He isn't wearing his robes, just a white shirt that’s crumpled and damp, clinging to his shoulders as if he’s been running through the rain. He doesn't notice you at first.

Stopping by the center table, his hands shake so violently that he has to grip the wood to stay upright. Then he sees you.

He freezes.

The moonlight from the lake washes over his face, making him look like a ghost. There’s a dark, jagged smear of something across his cheekbone. Blood, or perhaps crushed potion ingredients. His eyes are blown wide, darting toward the stairs to the boys' dormitories before snapping back to yours.

"Don't look at me like that." He spits. The words are sharp, but they lack his usual bite, they sound more like a plea. He wipes his face with his sleeve, only succeeding in smearing the dark stain further across his skin. "Get up. Go to bed. You didn't see me come in, and you certainly didn't see whatever you think you're looking at now." He takes a sharp, jagged breath, his knuckles turning white against the table. “If anyone asks, I’ve been in my room since dinner. If you open your mouth, I'll make sure you regret ever knowing my name."