The walk to her office felt longer than the corridor was wide. Every step echoed with the click of Umbridge's heels on the stone behind her.

A single piece of parchment lay on the desk, inkwell and quill set neatly beside it. The quill was odd—black, sharp-tipped, gleaming in the lamplight.

The first stroke of the quill burned worse than any cut Y/n had ever felt. Blood bloomed at the tip of the nib as it scratched across the parchment, sinking into the fibers like a stain. Each letter hurt more than the last.

By the time the last line was written, Y/n's fingers were trembling. The pain had settled into a dull throb, radiating up her wrist.

Draco Malfoy stood at the end of the corridor, one eyebrow raised, his posture cautious—almost hesitant. He was holding his wand loosely at his side, the light from its tip casting long shadows across the floor.