But tonight, that hum had a sharp edge to it. A wariness. A tension that hadn't fully left since the Battle of Hogwarts, even with Voldemort's supposed fall and subsequent return lingering like a bad omen over everything.

The seventh years sat scattered among the sea of students, but the divisions were still clear. Those who had fought. Those who had fled. Those who had stood on the wrong side and were now trying—some desperately, some resentfully—to find their place again.

Y/n sat near the middle of the Gryffindor table, close enough to hear the whispers at the end of the bench. The candles flickered overhead, casting long shadows across the faces of old friends and new enemies.

Across the Hall, at the Slytherin table, a flash of pale blond hair caught the light.

Draco Malfoy was not looking at anyone. His eyes were fixed on his plate, his jaw tight, his shoulders stiff with the weight of a hundred stares he refused to meet.

But for just a moment—barely a breath—his gaze lifted.

And found Y/n.

The distance between the two tables had never felt so vast.