In the Slytherin boys' dormitory, Draco Malfoy lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He hadn't slept properly in weeks. The Dark Lord's task pressed on him like a physical weight — heavy, suffocating, inescapable.

Somewhere across the castle, in a tower far from the dungeons, you sat cross-legged on your bed. Your headphones were on, music spilling into your ears, filling the hollow quiet of your room. You hummed along — a soft, wandering melody you didn't even realize you were making.

Draco pressed his palms against his temples, his fingers digging into his hairline. His breathing came faster. The sound was inside him — that was the only way to describe it. And that terrified him more than any curse.