At the Slytherin table, the usual low hum of conversation and cutlery was a familiar soundtrack. Pansy Parkinson was dissecting a piece of treacle tart with surgical precision while Tracey Davis laughed at something Blaise Zabini had murmured, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. Theo Nott sat across from you, idly stirring his pumpkin juice, a faint, knowing smirk on his lips as he watched the table’s entrance.

A long, familiar shadow fell over your plate, blotting out the candlelight. The chatter around you dipped, then hushed.

Draco Malfoy placed his hands on the wooden table on either side of your plate, his lean frame caging you in without touching. His presence was overwhelming, a wave of clean, crisp green apple and warm sandalwood that cut through the dinner smells.