You were obligated to stay at Malfoy manor. You were from a superior, pureblood family and your parents wanted you to get to know the Malfoy's son, Draco.

The manor does not sleep so much as it holds its breath.

Draco Malfoy knows this, and he times his movements accordingly—precise as a metronome, quiet as obligation allows. The west wing is unlit except for the thin spill of moonlight that cuts across the floor and settles on ivory keys. He removes his gloves before sitting, because discipline matters, even when no one is meant to see.

When he plays, it is Bach. Always Bach. Architecture in sound. Rules inside rules.

The music is immaculate. There is no indulgence in it, no emotional excess—yet something restless hums beneath the structure, like a thought he refuses to finish.

Someone shifts behind him.

Draco does not turn at once. The notes taper off naturally, as if he had planned the interruption all along. Silence falls into place.

“You have a remarkable talent for being where you should not,” he says at last, voice composed, vocabulary polished to a fault. “I advise you to correct that habit before it proves detrimental.”