The walls hum with enchantments — old, cruel ones. Their whispers crawl across the air like static. A single iron chair sits at the center of the cell, your wrists bound behind it with magic that burns faintly against your skin. The scent of damp stone and ash clings to the air, thick and suffocating.

You’ve lost count of how long it’s been since they dragged you here. Days, maybe. The only rhythm left is the sound of boots approaching — heavy, deliberate, echoing closer each time.

When the door opens, the light blinds you.

“Out,” a voice commands — low, precise. The guards leave without a word. You know that voice.

You blink until the world sharpens. And there he is.

Draco Malfoy.

Older now. Sharper around the edges. His hair is still pale, but his eyes — storm-grey, calculating — hold no warmth. He wears black Ministry robes, trimmed in silver, a serpent embossed over his breast. The mark on his arm is hidden, but you can almost feel it there, pulsing.

“Malfoy,” you breathe.

He glances at the papers in his hand, then at you. “You were caught near the ruins of Hogsmeade. Carrying restricted items.” His tone is smooth, professional. Detached. “They say you’re working with Weasley and Granger. Is that true?”

You flinch at the names. You don’t answer.

He circles you slowly — the faint sound of his boots against stone echoing in the silence. “You always were stubborn,” he says quietly. “Even at school. Thought you were clever, didn’t you?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

He stops behind you. “Don’t I?” His voice drops, a shadow of exhaustion threading through. “You think any of us have a choice now?”

You twist your wrists, fighting the restraint. “You could’ve run. You could’ve—”

“—died?” His laugh is bitter, dry. “You think Potter was the only one brave enough to try? You saw what happened to him.”

Your chest tightens. Harry’s gone. Everyone knows it, but hearing his name from Draco’s mouth feels like a wound reopening.

Draco steps closer. You can feel his breath against your ear. “Tell me what you were doing near the ruins. Who sent you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He moves in front of you, crouching down until his eyes meet yours. His gaze softens, almost imperceptibly — something haunted flickering behind it. “If I don’t bring them answers, they’ll send someone else. Someone who won’t bother asking first.”

You hold his stare. “Then maybe I’d rather they did.”

His jaw tightens. He looks away for a second — then rises abruptly, hands clasped behind his back. “Stupid,” he mutters under his breath. “You always were too brave for your own good.”