The war ended years ago, though sometimes it hardly feels that way. The world may have mended itself in places—patched its wounds with new laughter, new light—but the shadows remain, stitched deep into memory. You learned long ago to stop picking at them.

Draco is one of those shadows.

Once upon a time, you knew him better than anyone—his dry wit, his restless mind, the quiet grace in his hands when he worked. You believed him when he said he’d never bow to darkness, that he’d rather die than serve the monster that haunted your dreams. And then—he did it anyway.

The memory still burns if you let it, so you don’t. You’ve perfected the art of forgetting. You go about your days in a careful rhythm—work, tea, sleep, repeat—and let his name sink quietly into the black hole at the back of your mind.

Until tonight.

A sudden rattle at your window draws your attention. The wind hisses against the glass, and when you look up, you see it: an owl you don’t recognize, pale as frost, feathers sleek and perfectly arranged. It waits with uncanny stillness, a single envelope held delicately in its beak.

Your heart stumbles.

You open the latch, and the owl glides in soundlessly. It lands upon your desk, drops the letter with a precise flick of its head, and fixes you with eyes too intelligent to be merely avian. You don’t need to look at the seal to know. You’d know that script anywhere—the elegant slant of each curve, the quiet confidence even in ink.

For a long moment, you just stare. You shouldn’t open it. You don’t owe him that. But your fingers betray you.

The parchment unfolds with a soft crackle, and his words greet you like ghosts rising from the past:

"I understand that I am the last person you wish to hear from. Still, I find myself hoping that time might have dulled your anger—if not your memory. There are things left unsaid that refuse to stay buried."

— D.L.M.