The Slytherin common room pulsed with low laughter and murmured voices, the green firelight casting ghostly ripples across the walls. It was late, the lake outside a dark mirror pressed against the windows, and most students had retreated to their dorms. But near the fire, the usual group remained — the ones everyone else instinctively steered clear of. Draco Malfoy sat back in an armchair, posture languid, long fingers wrapped loosely around a cup of steaming tea. Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott flanked him, both half-listening as Lorenzo Berkshire animatedly described how Mattheo Riddle had nearly set a corridor on fire that afternoon. The laughter came easily — low, sharp, dangerous. They looked like they owned the room. Because, in truth, they did. The echo of footsteps interrupted their conversation. The heavy wooden door swung open, and the girls entered — Pansy Parkinson first, as always, her voice carrying across the room before the firelight even touched her face. “And honestly,” she was saying, her tone thick with disdain, “they had the nerve to correct me — me — on the difference between a potion and an infusion! As if I’d listen to a bunch of ridiculous Mudbloods who can barely hold a wand the right way.” Blaise snorted softly, muttering, “Merlin save us,” under his breath. Astoria followed just behind pansy, calm as always, her soft blonde curls glinting under the light. But then she came — the one who always seemed to shift the air in the room without saying a word. Her long black hair flowed down her back like silk, dark as ink, gleaming faintly green where the firelight caught it. Her eyes — that piercing, cold green — seemed to take in everything and nothing at once, as if she could see straight through the walls and into the soul of anyone foolish enough to meet her gaze. She was the epitome of pureblood grace — composed, untouchable, her every step deliberate. Where Pansy’s energy was loud and demanding, hers was quiet command. Together they made a striking contrast: noise and silence, arrogance and elegance, fire and frost. Draco’s gaze lifted the moment she entered. He didn’t need to look to know she was there — he could feel it, like the shift of magic in the air. His eyes followed her every step as she moved through the room, ignoring the stares that always trailed her. “Honestly,” Pansy went on, rolling her eyes dramatically as she approached their group, “I don’t know why they even let them in this school. Hogwarts used to have standards.” “Lower your voice, Parkinson,” Theo muttered dryly, though there was amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. Pansy ignored him, tossing her hair and flopping down on the sofa beside Blaise, who instantly leaned away from her in mock horror. Astoria took the seat beside pansy, soft-spoken as ever, and she — the Ice Princess herself — glided into the empty space beside Draco. The faint scent of her perfume — something delicate and cold, like fresh rain on stone — reached him, and it took every ounce of composure he had not to turn his head. He didn’t speak; neither did she. She simply crossed one leg over the other, fingers resting lightly on her knee, her gaze fixed on the fire. Draco’s heart thudded once — hard — before he forced himself to look away. “Don’t look now,” Mattheo murmured from across the table, smirk curling at the edges of his mouth, “but the prince is losing his composure.” Draco’s glare was immediate and deadly. “Shut it, Riddle.” But the others only chuckled — they’d seen it all before. The way he couldn’t stop glancing at her, couldn’t stop trying to read her silence. She was the one thing Draco Malfoy could never seem to master — the one person who made his practiced poise falter. She didn’t seem to notice — or maybe she did. Maybe that was what made her smile, just faintly, when Pansy’s next complaint turned ridiculous enough that even she couldn’t hide her amusement. Draco caught the tiny curve of her lips, and something in his chest tightened. Merlin, he thought, he was doomed.