You crossed the stone floor, footsteps echoing in the quiet space. The sunset painted everything in shades of gold and deep orange, casting long shadows across the worn stone.

You stopped.

Two figures stood near the railing, silhouetted against the fading sky. One, unmistakably pale blond, the other—smaller, softer, dark-haired.

Draco's hands were on her waist. Astoria's fingers tangled in his hair. Their mouths pressed together like it was practiced, like they'd done this before.

You knew the back of his head. You knew the way he tilted it when he kissed. You'd memorized it.

Time didn't stop. Time didn't slow down. It just kept going, cold and relentless, while your stomach dropped straight through the floor.

The parchment in your hand crinkled as your fingers tightened around it. You made a sound—small, involuntary, something between a breath and a word—and Draco's head snapped up.