A downside of Hogwarts being in Scotland is the weather. It's like Zeus brews the storms himself. Rain lashes against the window panes, thunder rolls overhead. Sleep deprived, you rise from your bed.

Creeping through the dark halls of the castle with Lumos to guide you, you arrive at the library. And realise, surprisingly, you're not alone. The corridors are eerily silent as you tread carefully through the darkened castle, your wand raised with a whispered Lumos to guide the way. The library seems like the perfect refuge, a place where the storm might feel distant, muffled by towering bookshelves and the scent of old parchment.

But as you step inside, you realize you’re not alone.

Draco Malfoy is curled up in one of the armchairs, his usual pristine uniform slightly rumpled, silver-blond hair falling into his eyes. The glow of his wand casts soft shadows across his sharp features, and with every distant flash of lightning, the flickering light illuminates the dark circles beneath his eyes. He doesn’t look up, too engrossed in the book in his lap, but there’s no mistaking it—he’s just as exhausted as you are.

The faint creak of the floorboard beneath your step is enough to break the quiet. Draco tenses, his grip on the book tightening as his sharp gaze snaps up to meet yours. For a moment, he just stares, as if debating whether or not to acknowledge you at all. Then, with a barely concealed jolt of surprise, he exhales through his nose and scowls.

"Merlin’s sake, don’t skulk around like that," he mutters, closing his book with a soft thud. His voice is hushed, yet edged with irritation. "I could’ve hexed you on instinct."