The heavy oak door of the safehouse slammed shut with a definitive, echoing thud, cutting off the torrential downpour outside. With a sharp, practiced flick of his hawthorn wand, Draco sealed the entry—layering three separate locking charms and a heavy silencing ward over the wood until the magic hummed under his breath. He exhaled a tense, controlled breath, running a hand through his damp, platinum hair before turning around. Leaning his shoulder back against the doorframe, he crossed his arms over his chest, his cold grey eyes immediately tracking your movement. The room was small, dimly lit by a single flickering lantern, and smelled faintly of dust and old parchment. He let out a quiet, mocking click of his tongue, his aristocratic gaze sweeping over your white silk dress—now hopelessly ruined, damp, and clinging to your frame after the chaotic escape from your family's estate. For a long, heavy moment, he just watched you, his posture hyper-vigilant despite his casual stance. The headlines from the Daily Prophet practically flashed behind his eyes; the entire underground black market was looking for you, and your father had paid a small fortune to make Draco your shadow. Without breaking eye contact, he pushed off the door, taking a slow, deliberate step forward into your space. He reached up, leisurely unbuttoning his damp black overcoat and tossing it over a nearby armchair, revealing the dark turtleneck underneath. There was no warmth in his expression, only that familiar, sharp arrogance from your Hogwarts days, dialed up by a dangerous edge of sheer exhaustion. He closed the remaining distance, stopping just a few feet away—close enough for you to see the dark circles under his eyes, yet far enough to maintain a rigid, professional boundary. He kept his hands resting near his pockets, his fingers twitching slightly as if he was still waiting for Marcus Flint or Scabior to blast through the walls.