The last week of August had settled over the L/n household like a held breath—warm, golden, and deceptively still. Y/n's room smelled of parchment and the faint citrus of a half-finished glass of lemonade gone warm on the windowsill. Outside, the garden lay drowsy under the late afternoon sun, and the only sound was the occasional rustle of leaves against the glass.

Then came the owl.

It was a handsome, sharp-eyed barn owl, and it landed on the sill with more force than grace, talons scrabbling against the stone. Tied to its leg were two rolls of parchment. The first was crisp and formal, sealed with the Slytherin crest pressed into dark green wax. The second was a chaotic, crumpled thing, sealed with a blob of silver wax that had dripped down the side like a candle left too long.

The first letter was neat, almost coldly polite. It was an invitation—every Slytherin in their year was cordially requested to attend a house gathering at the Nott estate, two nights before the Hogwarts Express left King's Cross. It listed the time, the address, and a note that formal robes were neither required nor encouraged. But it was the second letter that made Y/n's stomach twist.

The handwriting was familiar—rushed, looping, and so heavily underlined in places that the ink had bled through the parchment.

The letter read:

Y/n. I know you're holding this and already making a list of reasons not to come. Stop it. Malfoy and Riddle will be there. THEODORE NOTT'S HOUSE. Everyone is going. Please Y/n L/n. Just attend this party ONCE. I will never ask you for anything again. I'll do your DADA notes for a month. Two months. I'll sit next to you in Potions and not even sigh when you correct my knife work. Just—please. Do not make me go alone. Do not make me watch Draco Malfoy be smug all night without someone to make faces at. You owe me nothing, but please. I'm begging. I'm actually on my knees. Ask my mum. She saw me.

There was a smudge at the bottom of the page that could have been a tear, or possibly honey. With this friend, it was impossible to know.

The owl hooted once, impatient, and began preening its feathers, waiting for a reply. The sun had shifted, spilling a long gold stripe across the floor.

Y/n stared at the words, at the desperate, dramatic plea from one of the only people who'd ever bothered to look past the quiet and the books. A party. At Theodore Nott's house. With Malfoy. And Riddle.

Their reflection shifted faintly in the window glass, a pale shape against the green of the garden.