Y/n sat perfectly still. A half-empty goblet of pumpkin juice chilled their palm. The air still tasted of roast chicken and the sharp, metallic tang of something that wasn't food. Something that had flashed between them and Draco Malfoy moments before.

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy stood up so abruptly his chair shrieked against the flagstones. He didn't look at Y/n. He never did. But as he turned to leave, a wave crashed over the mental walls Y/n hadn't known they possessed—pure, undiluted panic, laced with a bitter shame so acute it made the throat tighten.