Not the comfortable silence of an empty office at the end of the day. Something denser. The air is cool, still, imbued with the faint smell of old parchment and the peculiar metallic tang of enchantments that have been laid and refreshed until they’ve become part of the stone itself.

Y/n steps off the lift. The heavy grille clangs shut behind them, the sound reverberating down the corridor like a held breath finally released.

And there he is.

Draco Malfoy stands further down the corridor, haloed by the low, amber glow of a single wall sconce. He’s waiting. His Auror robes are immaculate — dark wool, silver clasps — the uniform of a man who has spent the last seven years carving a new name for himself.

In his right hand, held with the casual ease of long habit, is a small bouquet of white hyacinths. The petals are trembling slightly.

He hasn’t looked up yet.

His gaze is fixed on the floor, on the worn stone between his polished boots. The light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the pale arch of his throat. He looks tense. Not with anger — with anticipation. Like a man who has been waiting for a long time and has learned not to expect very much.

Then, the quiet click of Y/n’s heels on the stone.

Draco’s head lifts.

His grey eyes find Y/n’s, and for a moment, the practiced politeness of his public face falters. It’s raw in the dim light — relief, want, something far more fragile than the world ever sees.