Though great care has been taken to store everything away neatly, each book, each piece of parchment, each old potion vial and quill and diary and notebook has a certain grubby texture to it: dust, from years of neglect, from years of Draco not wanting to look at any of this stuff. His fingers are slightly grey with it, and he idly wipes them on the thighs of his trousers as he flicks through another book littered with his old handwriting in the margins, this time from school, from his extracurriculars with Pomfrey—