You step through the entrance, your suitcase wheels catching on the worn flagstones. Your phone buzzes once in your hand—a reply from your mum. Glad you arrived safe. Love you. Call me later.

You barely register it.

Your eyes are already moving, scanning—searching—settling.

There.

The Slytherin table is crowded, but he stands out like he always does. Platinum blond catching the candlelight. Shoulders broad under his black jumper. Draco Malfoy is laughing at something on Astoria’s phone, head tilted toward hers, one hand resting casually on the bench behind her.

Not touching her. But close enough.

Astoria says something, and he huffs a quiet laugh—that low, private sound you used to collect like treasure. She grins and brushes an invisible speck off his sleeve. He doesn’t pull away.

Your throat closes.

A first-year nearly crashes into you, muttering an apology as they dart past. You don't move.

Then Draco’s head lifts. His grey eyes find yours across the hall.

The noise of the room seems to dim. For a heartbeat—maybe two—neither of you breathes. His hand stills on the bench. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

Draco.