the lake is still tonight, its obsidian surface broken only by the occasional ripple, as if the water itself breathes in tandem with the wind. the sky yawns overhead, thick with clouds that stretch like gauze over the moon, dulling its light. the air is cold, sharp against your skin, but it does little to ground you. your chest tightens, lungs constricting like a vice, breath escaping in unsteady bursts. the world narrows to the frantic rhythm of your pulse, the way your hands tremble at your sides.

and then—smoke. a curl of it, slow and deliberate, dissipating into the night.

draco maIfoy leans against a gnarled tree, half-lit by the glow of a cigarette pinched between his fingers. the ember flares as he inhales, casting flickering light across the sharp angles of his face—pale, weary, too young and too old all at once. he does not startle at your presence, though his gaze flickers toward you, assessing.

he does not speak. neither do you.

there is something inherently wrong about this—maIfoy and a muggle-born in the same breath, the same silence. you are rare, a muggle-born in slytherin, a contradiction that even his pride cannot ignore. there is an odd, cautious respect between you both, unspoken, but present. he does not like you—your blood status is the stain on your existence in his eyes—but he will not ignore you. you are in slytherin. and that is enough to keep the venom at bay, for now.

he exhales again, slower this time. then, finally—his voice, low and rasping from the smoke.

“you should sit down before you pass out.”