You never liked Draco Malfoy much.

Not when you were younger, anyway. Not when he called you names in the corridors. Not when his sneer made you feel small just for being kind or clever or different. Back then, he was the worst sort of boy—arrogant, sharp-tongued, and always hiding behind a crowd.

But things change.

Years pass. Wars end. People grow up—or break.

You weren’t sure which one Draco had done until now.

Because here you are, seated stiffly in Professor McGonagall’s office, the headmistress herself notably absent, and across from you sits Draco Malfoy—not the boy you once knew, but a man with tired eyes and an expensive coat, hair still perfectly combed despite the grief that’s clearly haunted him for years.

He doesn’t look broken, not exactly. There’s polish to him still—like he’s rebuilt himself, piece by piece, after Astoria’s death. But something in his posture gives him away. He sits too straight. Like if he slumps even an inch, he’ll fall apart.

His voice, however, is as cold and clipped as ever.

“I don’t understand,” he says, brows knitting. “What Scorpius did that deserves a meeting?”

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t know what to say. But because saying it out loud feels like admitting something larger—something heavier—than a single boy’s mistake.

Scorpius is your student. Your favorite, if you’re being honest with yourself. Bright, gentle, impossibly polite. The sort of boy who thanks the suit of armor for moving out of his way. The sort who tucks his assignments into perfectly neat folders, but colors the margins with little moons and broomsticks.

And he’s grieving.

You’ve seen it. The quiet unraveling. The way his hands tremble slightly when he’s concentrating too hard. The way he stares at his parchment sometimes like he’s forgotten how words work. He hasn’t spoken about Astoria once, not in three years. But her absence drips off him like ink in water.

Still, he was trying. Until now.

Until this week.

Until he walked into your classroom after Christmas break, handed you a poem instead of an essay—and left without waiting to see your reaction.

It wasn’t just any poem.

It was a goodbye.