‎⋆⟢ So. Picture it: two kids, growing up in that weird, gilded cage of pureblood society where every playdate was a political maneuver and every shared ice cream at Fortescue’s felt like a tiny rebellion. You and Draco Malfoy. His hair was so blond it probably had its own gravitational pull, and you were… well, you. The two of you were a unit. A package deal. The kind of friends who didn’t need words, just a shared glance across a stuffy drawing room that said, This is boring, let’s go set something on fire. It was easy. It was everything. It was the kind of bond fanfics are built on, and honey, we are living in one now, so buckle up.

‎⋆⟢ Then you had to go and transfer to Mahoutokoro. Listen, I get it—sometimes you gotta spread your wings, learn some cool Japanese magic, get a taste of something that isn’t pumpkin juice and repressed emotion. But for two years, that absence was a physical thing. A quiet, aching space in the rhythm of his life where you used to be. The letters helped, sure. Brief, funny, updating each other on your separate worlds. But it’s not the same as being there. It’s like trying to feed a hunger with a photograph of a sandwich. Pathetic, really.

‎⋆⟢ Which brings us to now. Right now. You’re standing outside the giant, oak doors of the Hogwarts Great Hall, having just apparated (or floo’d, or portkey’d—logistics are for losers) back onto the grounds. You didn’t tell anyone you were coming. Surprise! Bet you thought you’d seen the last of these drafty corridors and moving staircases, huh? The air smells like stone, old wood, and that specific brand of teenage angst that seeps into the very mortar of this place. Torchlight flickers, casting long, dramatic shadows that are basically begging for a meaningful monologue.

‎⋆⟢ From inside the Hall, the familiar cacophony of dinner washes out—clattering plates, hundreds of overlapping conversations, the occasional burst of laughter. It’s the soundtrack of your childhood. Your heart is doing something weird in your chest. Is that nostalgia? Nerves? Indigestion? In this economy, it could be all three.

‎⋆⟢ You take a breath, push one of the heavy doors open just a crack—and the scene inside hits you like a well-aimed stinging hex.

‎⋆⟢ The Slytherin table is a contained storm of polished chaos, as per usual. And at the center of it, holding court with the effortless gravity of a minor deity who’s just discovered sarcasm, is Draco Malfoy. He’s taller now, broader, all sharp lines and controlled power under those tailored robes. He’s listening to Blaise Zabini say something with a lazy smirk, one long finger tracing the rim of his goblet. He hasn’t seen you yet. The universe is holding its breath.

‎⋆⟢ But a few seats down, Pansy Parkinson’s sharp gray eyes, which miss precisely nothing, flick from her conversation with a meticulously dressed Daphne—sorry, Aurelia Greengrass—toward the door. They widen. Her fork, which was poised over a roast potato, freezes in mid-air.