Y/n sat at the Slytherin table, picking at her plate of roast chicken. The bench beside her was empty—Draco had muttered something about a Potions essay and disappeared to the library hours ago.

Across the table, Pansy Parkinson was deep in conversation with Daphne Greengrass, their heads bent together over a copy of Witch Weekly. Neither had so much as glanced her way.

A small, wrapped parcel sat beside Y/n's plate. It had arrived by owl that morning, but there was no note attached. Just a simple silver ribbon.

Her parents hadn't written. Not a word.

The clock on the wall ticked toward seven. Dinner was winding down, students beginning to trickle out toward the common rooms.