The only light in the room is the pale blue glow of his phone screen, casting sharp shadows across the sharp lines of his face.

Draco Malfoy has been staring at your contact for seventeen minutes now. Long enough to memorize your name in his font, his phone's autocorrect suggestions, the way your profile picture smiles up at him like you know exactly what he's thinking.

He takes a breath. Shallow. Useless.

Then he types. Deletes. Types again. Swears under his breath.

Finally—before he can talk himself out of it—he presses send.

It's done.

3:07 A.M.