It was late. Most of the house was asleep. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the soft, rhythmic scratch of a quill from the corner where Daphne Greengrass was bent over an essay, her brow furrowed.

On the largest sofa, Draco Malfoy was sprawled, one arm flung over his eyes. An empty glass bottle, label peeled, dangled from his other hand, resting on the floor. His breathing was a little too even, a little too deep.

The scene held, tense and still, like a held breath. The familiar weight of it all—the secrets, the damage, the unspoken rules—settled over the room. They were all here. Waiting. For what, nobody ever said.