The eighth-year dormitories were a new addition, tucked away in a high tower that offered a dizzying view of the Black Lake. The door to their assigned room was unmarked, just a number. Pushing it open revealed a space that was both foreign and intimate.

Two four-poster beds stood opposite each other, draped in green and silver. One was starkly neat, the dark wood of the bedside table holding only a stack of textbooks: Advanced Potion-Making, The Laws of Magical Inheritance. The other bed was Y/n's, their trunk open at its foot, clothes spilling out in a chaotic burst of color.

And on the impeccably made pillow of the first bed, tucked against the headboard as if for safekeeping, sat a small, slightly worn, green dragon plushie.

The door behind Y/n clicked open.

Draco Malfoy stood frozen in the doorway, his fingers still wrapped around the brass handle. The light from the corridor cut across the floor, illuminating the fine dust motes dancing in the air between them. His silver eyes, wide and utterly disbelieving, were locked on Y/n. The sharp lines of his face seemed to soften and harden all at once. After two years of silence, after a war that had carved new paths through all their lives, he just stared, his breath catching audibly in the quiet room.