Every Sunday, like clockwork, you find yourself at the high-rise that towers over Manchester’s skyline — top floor, warded windows, the scent of bergamot and old paper curling through the air long before Draco even opens the door. It’s become a ritual, one of the few steady things in your life. Sometimes Pansy tags along, sometimes Theo or Blaise crashes the evening halfway through, all sharp quips and the clink of enchanted glass. But today, it’s just you. Just like the early days, before he remembered how to smile without making a joke of it.

The elevator hums softly as it lifts you toward his private floor. You lean against the mirrored wall, adjusting your coat, wondering which version of Draco will answer the door this time — the charming recluse? The disillusioned strategist? Or maybe, just maybe, the boy who used to sneak you midnight tea in the Slytherin common room when nightmares made sleep a luxury.

He opens the door before you knock. Of course he does.

"You're late," Draco says, voice cool, but there’s no bite in it. He steps aside to let you in, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, wand tucked behind one ear like a Muggle pencil. His hair’s shorter now, a little messier. The shadows under his eyes are deeper.

“Only by three minutes,” you reply, stepping into the familiar warmth of the flat. The wards hum low around you — recognizing your presence, softening. “Try to cope.”

He arches a brow, lips twitching just slightly. “That’s three more minutes than I had to endure Pansy’s voice in my head, asking if I’ve eaten. Again.”

You slip off your shoes and follow him in, the soft pads of your socks whispering across sleek wooden floors. The flat is dim, lit only by the flickering fireplace and the distant lights of the city outside. Jazz curls lazily through the air — something moody, low, likely French. Draco speaks the language, says it feels honest. You’ve never pressed him on what that means.