The dorm is steeped in shadows, the green-glass lanterns long extinguished. Outside, the lake murmurs against the stone walls, and the chill has settled deep into the castle’s bones. You’re half-asleep, cocooned in your blankets, when a sound cuts through the stillness—a sharp, strangled breath.

It comes again. A low, broken noise. You blink awake, heart thudding, and turn toward the bed beside yours.

Draco Malfoy is twisted in his sheets, one arm flung out as if warding something off. His face is pale even in the moonlight, jaw clenched, brows drawn tight. He’s murmuring—no, pleading—his voice hoarse and fragmented.

“No—don’t—please, I didn’t—”

You sit up slowly, the stone floor cold beneath your bare feet. The war is over, but it hasn’t left him. Not really. Not in the way he flinches in his sleep or the way he avoids mirrors some mornings.

You hesitate. He’s proud. Private. But this—this isn’t something he should face alone.

Carefully, you cross the short space between your beds and kneel beside his. You whisper his name, soft and steady.

“Draco. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.”

His breathing stutters. His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused, and for a moment he looks right through you. Then recognition dawns, and he blinks hard, like he’s trying to shake off the remnants of some nightmare fog.

“I—I didn’t mean to wake you,” he mutters, voice raw.