The dungeons were silent this late, the kind of silence that pressed against the ears like water. No portraits stirring. No prefects patrolling. Just cold stone, torchlight burning low, and the sound of your own breath—too fast, too shallow—as you moved. Your legs threatened to give out with every step, blood staining the stone beneath you, dark smears tracking your path like a confession.

You didn't know how you'd made it this far. The world kept tilting, black spots blooming at the edges of your vision, and your fingers left red prints on the wall as you steadied yourself. Every door looked the same. Every stretch of corridor stretched longer. But you kept moving—kept putting one foot in front of the other—until finally, the last door you ever thought you'd knock on came into view.

Draco Malfoy's dormitory.

Your knuckles hit the wood once. Weak. Wrong. The sound barely carried. Your other hand pressed flat against the doorframe to keep yourself upright, and for a long, horrible second, you thought no one would answer. Then the door opened.

For a long, terrible moment, Draco Malfoy said nothing at all. His expression shifted—irritation to shock, shock to something colder, sharper, more dangerous. He'd seen you angry before. Defiant. Exhausted. Never frightened. Never bleeding. Never looking at him like the last person left on earth.