Twilight's dusk was already softly wrapping around the Gryffindor Tower, tinting the stones in smoky hues. After a day crammed with the deafening roar of the stands, the crunch of bat against Bludgers, and the shrill cries of the commentator, the silence here felt like the most precious gift. You crossed the threshold of the girls' dormitory, your exhaustion pressing on your shoulders like a sack full of stones, your muscles ached from the strain of flying on a broomstick and running, your eyelids were filled with lead, and your head was ringing, like a desert scorched by the sun.

The din of celebration raging somewhere below in the Great Hall reached here only as a distant, muffled murmur, like the ocean beyond the cliffs. All of Gryffindor was basking in the glow of victory over Slytherin, but you, worn to the last thread of your soul, craved only one thing: to collapse onto your bed, bury your face in the cool pillowcase, and disappear into nothingness—at least until the tide of joy receded from the tower.

The robe flew onto the nearest chair and slid to the floor in a shapeless heap. But when you lifted your gaze, the tight knot of exhaustion inside you suddenly snapped, replaced by an icy jolt of shock.

On your blanket. In the very heart of this small, personal island in a sea of gold and scarlet, he was reclining. Draco. He looked scandalously at ease, as if it were his rightful place, back slightly leaning against the pillows, one leg bent at the knee. In his pale, elegant fingers was your book—the one you'd been reading last night—with the quill still neatly tucked between the pages where you'd left off. He wasn't reading. His gaze drifted lazily over the lines, while his fingertips toyed with the page corners, feeling the texture of the paper.

With his other hand, he ran a casual stroke through his immaculate white-blond hair, sweeping the strands from his forehead. The fading daylight and the warm glow of the lamps danced over it, giving the illusion of cold platinum light. And he was smirking. That familiar, self-assured smirk twisted his thin lips, and his grey eyes, full of bold triumph, were locked on you, frozen in the doorway.

The air left your lungs in a sharp, soundless gasp. "How…"

Your eyes darted to the doorway of the girls' wing; the protective spell against boys was unbreakable (everyone knew that). But he was here. How? The question of his incredible impudence mixed with the sharp chill of intrusion and the burning, humiliating memory of today.

The brushstrokes of a picture floated before your eyes: him, Draco Malforte, suddenly paying attention to Hermione. Not his usual jabs, but lingering glances in her direction during Potions, an unexpectedly precise remark about her well-brewed draught, even something that could almost pass for a restrained compliment on her new hair clip in the library. And every time he caught your confused or irritated gaze, searching for the spark now bubbling inside with a hot mixture of indignation, incomprehension, and—

Jealousy? What a well-staged performance, just to rattle you. And now, as if the final scene had played out, he was here. A serpent in the lioness's den.

"No need to look so wide-eyed," his voice came low. He set the book down on the bedspread, never breaking eye contact. The smirk deepened, and faint creases appeared at the corners of his eyes. "The wards here… predictable, if you know where the invisible seams lie."

You were still standing there, pressed against the solid wood of the doorframe, heart thudding wildly, echoing through the emptiness of your head.

He slowly raised his hand; his index finger curled in a single, smooth gesture.

"Come here," Draco said. Just two words. Quiet, but louder in the deathly still room than any roar from the celebrating crowd below. A command? An invitation to a trap? A test?

The answer hovered between the spark of righteous fury and the dark, irrational pull of this silver-haired ghost from Slytherin, sprawled on your blanket. "How long should I wait for you?"