Madam Rosmerta shouts something at a table of sixth years. Butterbeer foams over the lip of a jug. Someone's cauldron has tipped and rolled beneath a bench, and no one has bothered to pick it up.

At the far end of the room, by the little cast-iron stove, sit the Slytherins. Draco Malfoy has his back to the wall, legs stretched under the table, a half-empty glass sweating on the wood. Beside him Astoria Greengrass laughs at something Daphne's said, and her hand rests on his forearm as though it belongs there. It's the sort of gesture that's become ordinary — a hand, a laugh, a boy who tilts his head down to listen to her. Theodore Nott is watching Blaise Zabini cheat at cards. Mattheo Riddle is watching the door.