Steam curled from your porcelain teacup. The air around your group was still, a silent boundary of composure and power that the rest of the hall instinctively respected. No one approached. No one even looked for too long.

Then, a shift in the air. A rustle of wings. Hundreds of owls streamed into the Great Hall, a flurry of brown and grey against the enchanted ceiling. One, a sleek barn owl, broke from the flock, a copy of the Daily Prophet clutched in its talons. It swooped low over the Slytherin table.

The owl didn't head for Draco. It didn't head for any of the other heirs vying for attention.

It landed with a soft thud right beside your plate, dropping the rolled-up newspaper onto the pristine wood. The front page faced up.

The moving photograph glimmered under the candlelight. Draco Malfoy. And Astoria Greengrass. Locked in a kiss in a shadowy corridor, her fingers tangled in his robes, his head bent to hers. The moment looped. Again. And again.

The headline, in bold, cruel letters, read: A Midnight Tryst: Malfoy Heir's Secret Rendezvous.