Y/n sat alone at a table near the restricted section, hunched over a book that hadn't held her attention for nearly half an hour. Her hair hung loose, unbrushed, falling around her face like a shield.

Across the room, Madam Pince was shelving books with aggressive precision. A first-year whispered too loudly and earned a death glare that sent them scurrying.

No one approached Y/n's table.

No one ever did anymore.

They'd learned. The first few days after everything happened, people tried. Friends. Acquaintances. That one Hufflepuff who kept offering her terrible pumpkin pasties. But Y/n's responses had become so hollow, so exhausting to witness, that eventually everyone stopped.

Except Pansy, who still left a house-elf-made sandwich on her pillow every night. Y/n never thanked her. She knew she should. But words felt heavy lately.

Like she'd forgotten how to carry them.

The page in front of her blurred again. Chapter Seven of Advanced Potion-Making. She'd read the same line five times.

The addition of moonstone requires precise timing, as overexposure to lunar energy—

A shadow fell across the page.

A beat of silence.

And then—

It happened.

A sound.

Tiny. Hoarse. Barely audible.

A laugh.

Draco's eyebrows shot up.

Apparently, he'd been preparing for tears. A breakdown. A hex, maybe. Not this.