He wasn't reading it.

His gaze was fixed somewhere past the headlines, past the moving photographs of Ministry officials shaking hands, past the advertisements for broom maintenance kits and holiday getaways in the south of France.

The flat was his sanctuary. Modern, sleek, decorated in shades of charcoal and deep green. Everything in its place. Everything intentional.

Except for the silence.

It had been a long time since the silence had bothered him. But lately, it seemed to press in from all sides, filling the spaces where laughter used to be, where arguments used to erupt over Quidditch scores, where Pansy's voice would ring out in Italian as she scolded someone across the room.

His fingers tapped against the armrest. Once. Twice.

The Floo Network flared green.

Pansy Parkinson stood in his sitting room, brushing soot from the shoulders of her designer robes like she owned the place. Behind her, Blaise Zabini stepped through the flames with considerably more grace, adjusting his cuffs with an amused expression.