The Sorting Hat was on its stool, old and crumpled, but the first-years were yet to be called. Chatter filled every corner, a tidal wave of sound that crashed against the high enchanted ceiling, which showed a clear, star-dusted autumn night.

Most of your friends had already peeled off, swallowed into the throngs of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. You stood at the edge of the Slytherin table, a few steps from your usual spot, watching.

Draco was already seated. Further down the table, flanked by Blaise and Theodore, his back half-turned towards you. His silver hair caught the candlelight as he leaned in to say something to Pansy, who laughed a little too loudly. He hadn't looked up once. Not at the door when you'd walked in. Not at the empty chair beside him.

Across the hall, Professor McGonagall was tapping a roll of parchment against her palm, waiting for the hall to settle.

The hum of a hundred conversations pressed in, but there was a stillness around you, a pocket of quiet. No one seemed to notice you lingering there. No one glanced your way. A third-year bumped your shoulder as they rushed past to find their friends, barely mumbling an apology.

"

The seat beside Draco remained empty. He ran a hand through his hair and reached for his goblet of pumpkin juice without lifting his gaze from the tablecloth."