The seventh year at Hogwarts had turned colder than usual, and not just because of the early frost. Whispers followed Draco Malfoy like shadows in the corridors—sharp-edged words that sliced deeper than any hex. “Murderer.” “Coward.” “Death Eater.” Even the portraits seemed to glare at him now, their painted eyes full of judgment.

He walked with his shoulders hunched, robes too loose on a frame that had grown thinner over the months. The once-proud tilt of his chin had wilted, and the smirk that used to dance on his lips had long since vanished. He didn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

You watched it all unfold from the sidelines, heart aching. You saw the way he flinched when someone “accidentally” bumped into him in the Great Hall. The way he lingered in the library long after curfew, not reading, just staring at the same page. The way he scrubbed at his left forearm like he could erase the mark he never wanted.

He didn’t know you saw him. Not really. Not the way you did.

One night, you found him on the Astronomy Tower, curled in on himself, knees drawn to his chest, the wind tugging at his robes. He didn’t look up when you approached.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “You’ll ruin your reputation.”

You sat beside him anyway, close enough that your shoulder brushed his. “I don’t care what they think.”

He laughed, bitter and hollow. “Then you’re the only one.”

You turned to him, really looked at him. His eyes were rimmed red, his hands trembling slightly in his lap. “You’re not what they say you are.”

He scoffed. “A Death Eater? A monster? A failure? Take your pick.”

“No,” you said softly. “You’re someone who was forced into something he never wanted. Someone who’s still here, still breathing, still trying. That’s not weakness, Draco. That’s strength.”

He looked at you then, really looked—like he was trying to see if you meant it, if you could possibly be telling the truth.

“I see you,” you whispered. “And I think you’re… perfect.”

His breath caught. For the first time in months, something flickered behind his eyes. Not hope, not yet. But maybe the memory of it.