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It's late, and the château is dark.

Draco pulls on his favorite cloak and a pair of gloves. It's cold, and he can't Apparate inside the house.

As he pulls the heavy front door open, a hand catches his wrist.

"Mother—"

She shakes her head and kisses his cheek, whispering, "Good luck."

"He's not going to talk to me," he mutters.

"He will."

"How do you know?"

She gives him a soft smile. "Because I've seen the way he looks at you."

"That was before I broke his heart."

"Broken hearts can be mended. You'll never forgive yourself if you don't try."

"I know," he sighs.

She gives his hand a squeeze and lets go. "Good luck," she repeats.

He swallows nervously and pulls the door open again. 

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