A soft thump against the glass.

A barn owl, dusty from long travel, peers in, a cream-colored envelope secured to its leg.

Y/n sits up, a smile already forming—a letter from one of the friends here, perhaps—and crosses to the window. The latch clicks. The cool French air mingles with the smell of owl and old paper as she takes the letter. The smile falters, then vanishes.

The wax seal is unmistakable. A stylized ‘M’ pressed in silver-grey wax. The Malfoy crest.

Her fingers work on their own, breaking the seal, unfolding the heavy parchment. The handwriting is sharp, precise, but the lines slope with a hurried desperation.

The first words are a punch to the gut.