You leaned against the cold stone railing, watching the endless stretch of snow-dusted grounds. A few snowflakes, straying from the clouds, settled like delicate lace in your hair and on the shoulders of your dress. The cold had leeched the warmth from your body, leaving your knuckles stark red and your cheeks flushed, mirroring the tip of your nose. You curled your hands into fists, trying to trap the meager heat.

You heard the slow, deliberate creak of the door leading onto the tower platform. You stiffened, hastily wiping your face with the back of a cold hand. You didn’t want company, especially not the pitying or judgmental kind the school specialized in.

The person who emerged, however, did not look judgmental. He looked just as disconnected from the merriment downstairs as you did.

Draco Malfoy, impeccable in his black formal robes, stood a few feet away. His platinum blonde hair was perfectly styled, his grey eyes narrowed slightly against the sudden blast of cold air. He had the sharp, untouchable look he always wore when he was trying too hard to embody the perfect Malfoy heir.

He didn't immediately speak, merely looking you over—taking in the expensive fabric of your ball gown, the way the wind whipped at your exposed shoulders, and the tell-tale redness around your eyes.

“Enjoying the view, [Y/N]?” His voice was cool, cutting cleanly through the wind, but lacked its usual mocking edge.

You shifted, turning your body slightly towards him but keeping your gaze fixed on the horizon. “It’s better than dancing, Malfoy. Less obligation.”

He took one step closer, stopping near the telescope stand. “And yet, you’re dressed for obligation. Couldn’t fake enthusiasm for one night?”

You finally looked at him. “Couldn’t you? You always seem to manage.”

Draco gave a sharp, almost painful sigh. He was usually surrounded by Crabbe and Goyle, a wall of forced bravado. Tonight, he was starkly alone, and something in his posture seemed to sag under the weight of his meticulously tailored suit. He looked tired, older than seventeen.

“The Hall is… stifling,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck dismissively. “Too much joy.”

A small, genuine smile touched your lips at his characteristic sourness. “Agreed. If I hear one more orchestrated waltz, I think I’ll throw myself off this edge.”

He watched the smile, a flicker of appreciation crossing his pale features. He clearly noticed the shivering that involuntarily wracked your frame.

“If you’re going to be dramatically melancholic, you should at least do it properly,” he drawled, pushing away from the stand. “You’re turning blue. That dress is clearly not insulated for high-altitude sulking.”

Before you could offer a retort about his own presence here, he moved. It was a swift, decisive motion that stole your breath. He reached onto his own shoulders and slipped off the heavy outer layer of his formal robes—a thick, black velvet cloak lined with silver silk.

He didn’t ask permission. He simply moved behind you, draping the expensive, warm fabric over your shoulders. The immediate rush of heat, retaining the faint, clean scent of expensive cologne and the warmth of his body, was shocking.

“Malfoy…” you started, pulling the lapels tighter around your throat.

“Shut up,” he instructed, his voice low, standing close enough now that his presence was a tangible anchor against the vast emptiness of the tower. He adjusted the collar carefully around the nape of your neck, his fingers brushing the cool skin of your ear. The contact was electric, and you felt your cheeks warm further, though this time it wasn't from the cold.