In the Charms classroom, the only light came from a single desk lamp, its warm pool of gold illuminating a stack of parchment covered in red ink. A quill scratched steadily, pausing occasionally to underline a particularly egregious spelling error.

The door across the hall opened.

Not with a slam, not even with a knock. Just the soft click of a handle, the whisper of robes against stone, and then the deliberate fall of footsteps—measured, unhurried, the gait of someone who had walked these corridors for a decade and knew exactly how much noise he was making and exactly who might hear it.

The footsteps stopped in the doorway of the Charms classroom.

Draco Malfoy stood there, one shoulder leaning against the frame, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. His teaching robes were gone, replaced by a simple black jumper and trousers, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. His hair was slightly dishevelled, as though he’d been running a hand through it, and his tie was missing entirely.