Above the long house tables, hundreds of enchanted candles float in a soft, shimmering pink-gold light. Roses of every shade climb the stone pillars, petals unfurling and releasing a gentle, sweet perfume into the warm air. Tiny, cherubic cupids — charmed parchment and mischief — zip and dart between the floating candles, delivering neat, folded notes into waiting hands, sometimes with a playful tug on a strand of hair.

Laughter rings clear and bright, bouncing off the enchanted ceiling where fluffy white clouds drift in a perfect blue sky. Students are unwrapping silver-foiled chocolates, comparing bouquets of charmed flowers that never wilt, reading aloud snippets of poetry that make their friends blush and squeal.

At the Slytherin table, the scene is no less lush, though the appreciation feels cooler, more curated. Crystal goblets gleam. Posture is perfect. Conversations are a low, polished hum.

The first gift arrives for you just as the post-owl breakfast rush settles. A small, nervous-looking Hufflepuff boy you shared a Herbology project with approaches, holding a single, perfect sunflower wrapped in green tissue.

Then, slowly, the vibrant yellow petals begin to curl inward. They blacken at the very edges, a creeping shadow, before the entire flower crumbles silently into a small pile of soft, scentless ash in your palms.

Across the hall, Draco’s fingers flex once, then settle, resting lightly against the stem of his own untouched goblet. He doesn’t smile. He simply watches you, his grey eyes unreadable.