Defence Against the Dark Arts is a slow death of the mind on most days. The torches burn dim, casting long shadows across the classroom, and Professor Moody’s gravelled voice drags through the air like sandpaper—low, rough, and entirely devoid of melody. You sit where you always do, beside Draco, in the second row from the front. Not by choice, exactly, but by the sort of unspoken arrangement that has become routine.

He never speaks to you during lessons. Not really. A nod in greeting, perhaps, or a shared glance when someone answers something particularly idiotic. That’s all. You’ve grown used to the silence—comfortable, almost.

Your quill moves half-heartedly across parchment as Moody rambles about dark wizards and defensive technique. You catch only fragments: power, intent, resistance. The words feel hollow, circling like smoke. You’re barely listening—until you hear him say the words that slice through the haze like a knife.

“The Unforgivable Curses.”

The room stills, as though the air itself has taken a breath it cannot release.

You glance sideways.

Draco hasn’t moved, but something in him has shifted—small, almost imperceptible, but enough for you to notice. His hand, resting loosely in his lap, trembles once before curling into a fist. His jaw tightens, a faint muscle flickering near his temple. His gaze remains fixed ahead, cold and expressionless, but his body betrays him—tension rolling through him like a storm beneath marble.