You’d watched him break and rebuild himself a hundred times, always from the edge of his orbit. You’d seen the way his mask slipped when he thought no one was looking. The exhaustion in his shoulders. The way his fingers twitched for a cigarette. The hollow look in his eyes after a letter from his father. And every time you saw that broken boy behind the Malfoy heir, you fell a little harder.

Loving Draco was like holding your hand over a flame and hoping it wouldn’t burn. It was stupid. It was exhausting. But it was yours.

And right now, you were standing outside the Slytherin common room door, heart pounding, because tonight you’d finally decided to stop waiting for him to let you in. You were going to make him talk. Really talk.

The stone corridor was cold and quiet, the torches flickering low. You could hear muffled voices from inside the common room, but none of them were his. You’d seen him slip out twenty minutes ago, shoulders hunched, head down. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Pulling away.

You knew where he went when he needed to be alone.