The walls stretch upward, then outward, melting into darkness. The floor beneath Draco's feet turns to stone—weather-worn, ancient, part of something larger. The ceiling vanishes entirely.

And then the sky.

It isn't a ceiling painted to look like stars. It's a real sky—endless and black, scattered with more stars than you've ever seen in one place. The Room opens onto a mountain overlook, and you can feel the thin, cold air brush against your skin even though you're hidden in its fabric.

But the stars aren't still.

They move slowly, deliberately, tracing patterns across the dark. Lines connect between them—glowing silver threads that draw themselves before your eyes. A wolf forms between two clusters of stars, its translucent body stretching, turning its great head to howl soundlessly. A dragon uncurls from the constellation Draco, wings spreading as its serpentine body drifts across the heavens. A hunter lifts his bow, arrow drawn, and yet he never releases.

The constellations are alive.

He hugs his knees. Looks smaller than you've ever seen him. Young, despite the circles under his eyes and the way he flinches whenever someone mentions his father.

You've watched Draco Malfoy for months now. You've seen him seethe and snap, whisper curses to himself, and pace circles around that broken cabinet until he wears grooves into the floor. You've seen him terrified. Desperate. Furious.

You've never seen him look like he's grieving.

So you stand close, invisible, watching him watch the stars. The air smells like pine and mountain frost, and the constellations keep drifting through the sky in their impossible dance, and some part of you—the part that's been alone for fifty years—aches with the silent beauty of it.