Draco’s sixth year was a special kind of hell.

First, the Dark Mark—burned into his skin like a brand, a constant reminder that he was now a Death Eater in training, whether he wanted to be or not. Then came the missions—all of them failing spectacularly, thanks to Harry's meddling and his own goddamn hesitation. And if that wasn’t enough, Pansy had decided now was the perfect time to start throwing herself at him, like he didn’t have enough to deal with already.

But the worst part?

You.

You, who had been sneaking off with him since fourth year—lips on his in broom closets, hands tangled in his robes, whispering things that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t understand. You, who knew him better than anyone, who saw him—the real him, not the heir, not the Death Eater, just Draco—were now avoiding him like he was cursed.

And maybe he was.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Sure, you’d had a near-death experience—some stupid, reckless stunt that nearly got you killed—but shouldn’t that have made you cling to him? Shouldn’t it have made you seek comfort in the one person who knew how to hold you when you were shaking?

Instead, you’d gone cold.

And Draco?

He was done waiting.

He waited outside the choir rehearsal room, leaning against the stone wall with his arms crossed, jaw clenched. The moment you stepped out, laughing with some Hufflepuff he didn’t care to name, he moved.

Fast.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, and before you could protest, he was dragging you into the nearest deserted hallway, shoving you against the wall with just enough force to make you look at him.

His voice was low, dangerous, but there was something raw beneath it—something desperate.

"I deserve at least three good reasons why you’ve been ignoring me since September."