At the Slytherin table, Daphne Greengrass was buttering toast with surgical precision. Theodore Nott sat across from her, stirring his tea without looking at it.

She was laughing at something Astoria Greengrass said, her hand resting lightly on Astoria’s arm. And then she lifted it to push her hair back.

On her finger, catching the light, was a ring. Old silver. Serpentine. The Malfoy crest.