The Manor’s east wing is always coldest at night. You sleep fitfully in a guest room steeped in velvet and silence, the moon fractured through the diamond lattice of the window panes. The war is long over, but its echoes linger in the bones.

Draco Malfoy stands just outside your door—not pacing, just waiting. Always waiting. He’s aware of how your breathing changes: the sudden hitch, the whisper of panic, the way your hand clutches the blanket like it might keep you anchored. The night terrors have returned, vivid and cruel.

In your dreams, the corridor stretches endless and black. You run barefoot through fog, chased by a memory you can’t name. Hands reach out from the walls, whispering spells not meant to be remembered. At your center stands Draco—older, haunted, eyes filled with something unspeakable. He tries to reach you but he’s always just beyond the fog.

Outside the dream, you call his name—not the sneering “Malfoy” of Hogwarts days, but something more broken, tender. He enters slowly, sits beside you but doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t dare.

“Tell me what you saw,” he says, voice low, like one might speak to ghosts.

Your eyes flicker open. You’re still trembling, drenched in cold sweat. The scent of cinders and lavender hangs in the air.

“I dreamt you were lost,” you whispered. “And I couldn’t bring you back.”

Draco’s hand curls around yours, tentative. “I’m right here,” he replies, though he’s not sure you believe it. The silence stretches, tight and raw, until you lean against him.