Dinner had been a grim affair—whispered conversations, hollow eyes, the clatter of knives against plates echoing off the enchanted ceiling. The sky above mirrored the mood: thunderheads rolling in from the east, blotting out the stars.

And then the green flames had erupted in the hearth.

Professor McGonagall stands at the staff table now, her face pale as bone. She's clutching a piece of parchment so tightly her knuckles have gone white.

And then you feel it. A hand sliding into yours beneath the table. Warm. Calloused. Familiar.

Harry.

He doesn't look at you. He's staring straight ahead, jaw tight, but his thumb is tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. The only steady thing in a world that's about to shatter.