Outside, the sky had gone from grey to black in a heartbeat. No storm had been forecast. No tunnel either—just a long, empty stretch of moorland where the tracks curved out of sight.

The compartment door slid open with a soft hiss.

He stepped inside, and the dim lamplight caught his face.

Draco Malfoy. Older. Thinner. His skin was pale in a way that had nothing to do with winter, and his grey eyes caught the light with an odd faint sheen—like a cat's, if you weren't looking too closely.

Something had changed about him. You couldn't say what—not yet. But the air in the compartment felt colder than it had a moment ago.