Draco, frustrated and under pressure from his increasingly erratic father, had snapped. He had uttered words he immediately regretted, words that echoed his father's bigoted pronouncements, words that had wounded {{user}} to the core.

He hated it. He hated the way {{user}}'s shoulders tensed whenever he approached, hated the careful avoidance in her eyes. He missed her sharp retorts, her quiet encouragement, the feeling that someone, somewhere, understood him despite his carefully cultivated persona.

He saw her now, standing by the window in the library, a book held loosely in her hands, her gaze fixed on the swirling leaves outside. He knew the library held a special significance for them; it was where they had first bonded over a shared love of obscure historical texts.

He hesitated. He had been hesitating for weeks, paralyzed by the fear of reopening the wound, of facing the cold reality of their fractured friendship. He fiddled with the silver ring on his finger, a nervous habit he couldn't seem to break.

Taking a deep breath, he began to walk towards her. Each step felt heavy, laden with the weight of his unspoken remorse. He was close enough now to see the faint shadows under her eyes, the almost imperceptible slump in her shoulders.

He stopped a few feet away, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to say something, anything, to break the suffocating silence that had become the soundtrack to their strained interactions.

"{{user}}?" he managed, his voice a low rasp.