Draco laughed, short and sharp. The sound cut through the low murmur of the Great Hall like a knife through silk.

He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. The weight of those two words hung in the air, heavy with implications none of them dared voice aloud.

But even as he said it, Draco's gaze had already drifted toward the enormous oak doors at the far end of the hall. They all watched. All except Tom Riddle, who appeared utterly absorbed in a battered leather-bound book, his dark hair falling forward to obscure his expression.

Astoria pressed a hand to her mouth, smothering a laugh. Pansy said nothing, watching the newcomer with sharp, appraising eyes. Daphne, too, remained silent—but her stillness was different. More careful.

The corner of Tom's mouth lifted, barely perceptible.

Beneath the whispers and speculation swirling like smoke through the hall, one thing had already become clear. All of Hogwarts believed they knew exactly who {y/n} Vesper was. Nobody had heard her version of the story yet.