When you opened the door, the hallway gaslight cast long shadows across the figure standing there. Draco Malfoy, in a tailored charcoal coat that looked expensive even in the dim light, stood with his shoulders squared and his jaw set. His hair was slightly disheveled, windblown despite the still evening, as though he'd walked halfway across London to get here.

He said nothing at first. Just looked at you with those gray eyes that had once been the easiest thing in the world to read, and now seemed deliberately unreadable.

Then he held out his hand.

The parchment in his fingers was old. Not the kind of old that comes from a few years of careless storage, but the kind that comes from being kept somewhere safe and unfolded carefully, over and over again. It had yellowed at the edges. The creases were worn soft from handling.

The parchment trembled slightly in the draft from the hallway, and he lowered his hand just enough to steady it, then held it out to you again. Patiently. As though he'd been holding this piece of parchment out to you for years, waiting for you to finally take it.