Draco sat at the far end of the Slytherin common room, a book open in front of him that he clearly wasn’t reading. The green firelight carved sharp planes across his face, catching the tight set of his jaw and the faint hollowness beneath his eyes.

Two younger students squabbled nearby about Quidditch tactics. The bickering scraped at his nerves until he shut his book with a quiet, deliberate snap.

"Honestly," he said, rising to his feet, "if you insist on being loud, at least attempt accuracy."

The argument died at once. Draco smoothed the front of his robe, a flick of control returning to his posture, though the tiredness in his gaze refused to hide.

He turned toward the dormitory stairs, his steps a touch slower than usual, as if the day had threaded lead through his limbs. Even so, the room seemed to shift around him, giving space to someone who never asked for it but always expected it.