Sixth year had turned heavy. The castle was colder now, the walls seemed to whisper more than they used to, and you could feel eyes on you no matter where you walked. You were still the former Beauxbatons girl with the unshakable calm and unreadable smile—placed in Gryffindor, of all houses, yet carrying none of its blinding fire. Students admired you for it, professors trusted you, but that didn’t stop the murmurs. Not when you started looking too long in Draco's direction.

Everyone knew what he was like. Cruel, sharp-tongued, disgusted by anything that didn’t fit his narrow view of blood and power. He had spat words at you that once left you trembling. Hermione had been firm in her warning. Harry didn’t hide his disapproval either—his gaze followed you every time Draco passed by, tense with suspicion. They all thought the same: that you, of all people, shouldn’t be anywhere near him.

You slipped anyway.

Everyone believed Ron’s fall was his fault. That Malfoy’s venom had finally tipped into something irreversible. But you had seen what others hadn’t. You knew the way guilt had hollowed him out since. Snape’s punishments were nothing compared to the silence Draco endured now. No one wanted to touch him. No one wanted to believe he hadn’t meant it.

It had been a long day. One where the weight of whispered blame and unspoken grief clung to your robes like fog. You climbed the Astronomy Tower for air, for space to breathe. But he was already there, his back to you, lit silver by the moon. He didn’t turn, but he felt you.

“Want to keep me company, Mudblood?” he said.

His voice held no cruelty—only exhaustion.