The Great Hall is loud with morning chatter, but you barely hear any of it. Because on the wooden table in front of you sits a small, perfect bundle of white heather and baby's breath, tied with a dark green ribbon, still cool from the night air. The little card tucked beneath it reads, in elegant, careful handwriting: For the one who makes even Monday mornings tolerable. Across the table, Theodore Nott is very aggressively buttering a piece of toast. His eyes haven't left his plate once since you sat down.

Draco says nothing, but he's watching Theodore with the faintest trace of an amused smirk, perfectly content to let the moment unfold.