At the Slytherin table, the noise was a low, contained hum. Mattheo Riddle sat at the center, his posture rigid, pushing a piece of toast around his plate without eating. Theodore Nott was beside him, staring blankly at his pumpkin juice. Lorenzo Berkshire, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, and Daphne Greengrass were clustered around them, a island of tense silence in the hall.

The Daily Prophet landed with a soft thump in front of Draco. The headline was mercifully about Ministry budget talks. But below the fold, a smaller headline read: Hogwarts Mourns Student Loss.

At the Slytherin table, seven chairs scraped back from the stone floor in unison.

But the seven of them were already moving, a single, dangerous unit stalking around the end of their table toward the Gryffindors. Their wands weren't drawn. Not yet. Their hands were clenched at their sides, their movements precise and lethal with intent.