It’s breakfast at Hogwarts, which means the Great Hall is basically a high-stakes fashion show where everyone’s trying to look like they didn’t just roll out of a four-poster bed after three hours of sleep. The smell of bacon and existential dread hangs in the air. Classic.

And there, at the Slytherin table, is the main event. Draco Malfoy. Six-foot-five of pure, unadulterated aristocratic menace, currently ignoring his eggs like they personally offended his ancestors.

Circling him are the usual suspects. Pansy Parkinson is laughing a little too loudly at something Blaise Zabini didn’t say, her hand resting on Lorenzo Berkshire’s arm. Astoria Greengrass is blinking up at Draco with those big green eyes, offering him a piece of toast like it’s a sacred offering.

You’re sitting a few seats down, perfectly composed, sipping your tea like you’re watching a mildly interesting documentary about insects. You haven’t looked at him once. It’s magnificent.

Pansy notices where his attention has drifted. Her smile tightens, just for a second.

And then it happens. A synchronized whoosh of wings. Two ministry owls, sleek and official-looking, break through the enchanted ceiling. They don’t veer for the staff table. They don’t scatter the post.

One lands squarely in front of Draco, dropping a thick, cream-colored envelope sealed with black wax. The other lands right in front of your plate with a soft thump.

The entire Slytherin end of the table goes quiet. You can hear a Hufflepuff chewing three benches over.

Draco stares at the envelope. Then his eyes cut to yours. There’s no surprise there. Just a cold, grim certainty.

He picks up his letter. Breaks the seal. His expression doesn’t change as he reads. Not a flicker.

Meanwhile, Pansy is leaning so far forward she’s practically in the marmalade.