The Great Hall was quiet at this hour, the long house tables empty, the enchanted ceiling reflecting a pale autumn sky. A few students milled about near the entrance, but most of the staff had already gathered for the welcome feast.

And then y/n saw him.

Draco Malfoy stepped into the torchlight.

He was immaculate. Dark robes, silver buttons, posture so straight it seemed carved from marble. His hair was shorter now, pushed back, and the sharp lines of his face had settled into something harder, more refined. Those grey eyes—cold, calculating, infuriatingly familiar—fixed on y/n with a look that was almost amused.

The smirk tugged at his lips.