The Great Hall buzzes with the chaos of return—trunks being dragged, owls hooting from the rafters, first-years gaping at the enchanted ceiling. I'm sitting at the Slytherin table, picking at the sleeve of my robe, watching the candlelight flicker across the faces of students who have no idea what any of us really are.

Across from me, Pansy's painting her nails a deep, venomous green, oblivious to the way my leg won't stop bouncing under the table.

Not the weather.

Him.

The Great Hall doors swing open and the whispers start before he's even fully inside—a low, serpentine murmur that ripples from house to house. Professor Snape strides at his side, but it's the other man who commands the room.

Tall. Pale. His presence presses against my chest like a weight I can't shake.

Voldemort is here, at Hogwarts, at the start-of-term feast. A smile curves his thin lips as his gaze sweeps the room—and lands on me. Just for a heartbeat.

My hand finds the inside of my left forearm beneath the table. The Mark is there, hidden under a glamour charm I've gotten disturbingly good at maintaining. It prickles. It always does when he's near.