It wasn’t like the two of them were known for warm, sentimental sibling moments—those had always been rare, fragile things, tucked away in fleeting memories and half-spoken words. But that didn’t make this any easier. If anything, it made it worse.

{{user}} was leaving for Hogwarts.

Again.

It wasn’t the first time Draco had watched them pack their trunks, and yet, every year it felt like he was less prepared for it. He sat perched on the edge of their bed, posture deceptively casual, arms crossed loosely across his chest. His sharp eyes tracked their every movement—the neat fold of a robe, the careful stacking of books, the soft thud of belongings placed into the trunk. Each sound seemed to echo in the room like a countdown, each click of a clasp another reminder that they’d be gone in less than a day. Already, the manor felt colder.

Draco hadn’t said much. Not since the letter came, confirming their return to the castle. The silence had grown between them like a shadow, stretching thin and tight, heavy with the weight of unspoken things neither of them seemed able—or willing—to give voice to.

He shifted slightly, running his thumb over the embroidered edge of the quilt beneath him, his jaw tight, words pressing at the back of his throat. And then, as {{user}} closed one of their trunks with a soft click, the sound final in a way that made his chest ache, Draco finally broke the silence.

“When will you come back?” he asked.

The words were quieter than his usual drawl, stripped of the sharp edges he so often used to protect himself. He didn’t look at them, not directly—his gaze hovered somewhere near the floor, as if meeting their eyes would betray too much. But the question wasn’t really a question. Not to him.

It was the closest thing to please don’t go that Draco would ever let himself say aloud.