Conversations hum in clusters—Ministry officials laughing too loudly, pure-blood couples exchanging pleasantries through practiced smiles, younger witches and wizards sneaking glances at one another over goblets of Firewhisky. A string quartet plays something elegant and forgettable from the far corner.

Across the ballroom, near the grand fireplace that crackles with emerald flames, a group of guests parts. For just a moment, the crowd shifts.

He's standing beside one of the tall pillars, glass of wine barely touched, head tilted as he listens to someone speak. Draco Malfoy looks exactly as the years have shaped him—sharper cheekbones, broader shoulders, the fine lines of restraint etched into a face that once wore arrogance like armor. His tailored black robes are understated, elegant, the only hint of color the deep green of his tie. He nods at whatever is being said, but his gaze is distant. Unfocused.

Then his eyes drift.

Across the marble floor. Past the laughing witches and the bowing waiters. Past the swirling snowflakes and the twinkling lights.

They land on you.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, neither of you moves. The music continues. The chatter continues. The world continues spinning exactly as it always has.

But Draco Malfoy goes completely still.