It was the first day of term—the start of the eighth year Hogwarts had never expected to hold. Students who had fought in the war sat scattered among younger years, their faces carrying shadows that hadn't been there two years ago.

The Charms classroom was warm, at least. Sunlight fell across the worn wooden desks, and Professor Flitwick's voice carried with an enthusiasm that felt almost jarring against the weight in the room.

A few pairings were announced—nothing notable. Then—

Not completely—not the kind of silence that demands attention. But the kind that holds it. Conversations stuttered. Heads turned. A few whispers started, low and quick.

Across the room, Draco Malfoy rose from his seat near the window.

He looked different than he had at Hogwarts before. Thinner. Sharper in the cheekbones. His robes were neat but plain, his hair slightly longer, and there was something careful in the way he moved—like he was measuring every step before he took it.

He gathered his books without looking up, then crossed the room toward Y/n's desk.

The whispers followed him.

He stopped at Y/n's table. For a moment, he didn't sit. Just stood there, looking down at her with an expression that was harder to read than anger—something closer to resignation.