Candles floated low over the long mahogany table, their flames casting shifting shadows across the faces of the gathered. Antique tapestries lined the walls, woven with serpents and the proud Malfoy crest. The air smelled of old parchment, polish, and something sharper—anticipation.

There—by the far window, away from the clusters of robed figures and low, conspiratorial conversations—stood a young man she didn't recognize.

He was tall, dark-haired, with sharp features that seemed carved from the same shadowed marble as the manor itself. His robes were simple, unadorned. He wasn't speaking to anyone.

And yet, his eyes were fixed on her.

But not his.

Across the room, the stranger tilted his head—just slightly, as if he'd heard their whispered exchange.