You were just pulling the thick velvet curtains around your four-poster bed when the door creaked open, letting in a sliver of torchlight from the corridor.

A tall, pale figure slipped through without a word. Draco.

He didn't stop at his own bed. He didn't say anything. He crossed the room in a few long strides and climbed straight into yours, pulling the curtains shut behind him.

The mattress dipped under his weight. The scent of him—expensive cologne, broomstick polish, something faintly metallic—filled the small space.

He lay still on his back, staring up at the dark canopy, his jaw tight. His hand found yours under the covers, cold and trembling slightly.