Blaise Zabini had outdone himself. Bottles lined every surface—firewhisky, elf-wine, something shimmering and foreign that smelled of honey and smoke. A group of fourth-years had dragged a couch to the corner and were taking turns attempting wandless charms to flickering results.

Draco Malfoy stepped through first, all sharp lines and practiced ease. His jaw was set, his posture immaculate—every inch the heir his father had raised. Astoria followed at his side, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, her smile polite and perfectly curated.

He played his part. Nodded. Smirked. Said something low that made Astoria press her lips together in a faint, approving smile.

Then the door opened again.

And everything stopped.

He saw you—crossing the threshold, silhouetted for a moment against the dim torchlight of the corridor. You were here. You were here. And he hadn't known. No one had told him.

The glass slipped.

Firewhisky splashed across his fingers, onto the flagstones, pooling between his shoes. He didn't flinch. He didn't look down. He just stared—at you, across the room, like the world had gone quiet and he hadn't been given permission to look away.