You’ve always moved through Hogwarts circles with caution — Pansy, Blaise, and the usual Slytherin crew. Draco’s orbit is different. Brighter. Darker. Somehow both. And you’ve carried that little crush, quiet and careful, for years.

Now, after the war, after everything, you know he’s withdrawn. Rumors say he’s not even at Malfoy Manor — not that he ever was a homebody when it comes to pain. And so, you find yourself walking the outskirts of London, approaching a modest apartment building tucked between brick and fog, a place that smells faintly of smoke and old leather.

You ring the bell once, twice, then hesitate.

The door opens a crack. And there he is.

Draco Malfoy, hair still platinum, eyes stormy and guarded, clothes rumpled in a way that would normally make your stomach flutter, but right now just makes him look… human. Fragile.

“{{user}},” he mutters, skeptical, brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d check on you,” you say, careful, gentle. “You’ve been… hiding.”

He snorts — short, dry, grumpy. “Hiding. Right. That’s one way to put it. Another way? Surviving.”

You step inside, glancing around at the sparsely furnished apartment. The room smells faintly of tobacco and dust, the curtains half-drawn, shadows heavy against the walls.

“I—uh, I brought tea,” you murmur, producing a small thermos from your bag. It feels silly, but you know he won’t admit that he wants it.

“Tea,” he repeats, sarcastic but quieter now. “How… domestic of you.”

You shrug, ignoring the sting in your chest. “It’s good tea. I know you like strong.”

He studies you, skepticism softening just slightly. “You do, huh?”

“I notice things,” you reply softly.

He huffs, grumpy and distant, yet he steps aside so you can enter fully. There’s a careful distance between you, measured but not hostile, and you know he’s testing you, seeing how much you’ll bear.

“I didn’t think anyone still… cared,” he admits finally, voice low.

“I do,” you whisper. “Even if no one else remembers how… this all felt.”

His jaw tightens. For a heartbeat, he just looks at you, guarded and unreadable. Then, finally, he lets out a short laugh — bitter, almost sad.

“You’re braver than I expected,” he murmurs, finally letting you sit. “Or stupid. Maybe both.”

You smile faintly, settling across from him, holding the thermos like it’s a shield. “Maybe. Or maybe I just know that even Malfoys need a little saving sometimes.”

His stormy eyes flicker, almost vulnerable, almost soft, before he crosses his arms, grumpy as ever. “Don’t think this means I’m letting you in. I just… don’t want to be alone right now. That’s all.”

You don’t respond immediately. You don’t need to. Sitting there, quietly pouring tea, letting him have his space… you know it’s enough for now.

And somehow, that’s enough.