Draco Malfoy is in his study, sprawled in a high-backed leather chair that does nothing to diminish his size. An empty bottle of Ogden’s Finest Firewhisky sits on the mahogany desk, next to his phone. The screen glows, a cold, harsh rectangle in the dark room.

He’s drunk. Not sloppy, not loud. The kind of drunk that settles in his bones, that loosens the iron control he wears like a second skin. His head is tipped back against the chair, storm-grey eyes fixed on the ceiling, seeing nothing. One large hand rests on his thigh, the other hovers over the phone.

His thumb moves. He opens his contacts. Scrolling is a slow, deliberate act. He passes names that mean nothing. Then he stops. Your name. No last name. Just the contact he saved years ago and has never deleted, despite every professional and personal reason to do so.

He stares at it. His jaw is tight. A muscle jumps in his cheek. The silence in the room is absolute, pressing in. He hates you. He thinks about that fact, turns it over in his liquor-slow mind. He hates your opinions, your defiance, the way you look at him like he’s something you’ve stepped in. He hates how you exist in his world, an irritant he can’t remove.

His thumb presses on your name. The message thread opens. It’s empty. No history. A clean slate waiting for the first, catastrophic mistake.

He types. His movements are clumsy, the elegant precision of his fingers blunted by alcohol. He backspaces. Starts again. The grey light of the screen reflects in his eyes, hollow and intent.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and runs both hands through his pale hair. He grips the strands at the roots, tight. A low, rough sound escapes him—frustration, self-loathing, something raw and unchained.

He picks the phone back up. The screen is still lit. He’s staring at the two blue ticks. Delivered. Read.

He waits.