You’ve been here for hours. Helping, smoothing, existing in the periphery as you always do. Astoria Greengrass moves through the crowd like a porcelain doll, her smile serene, her hand occasionally brushing Draco’s arm. He doesn’t lean into the touch.

Across the room, Pansy Parkinson catches your eye. She rolls hers dramatically, then mimes choking herself with her napkin.

The dinner drags. Speeches blur into a hum of obligation. You feel a presence settle into the empty seat Pansy just vacated.

Finally, Lucius Malfoy declares the formal portion concluded. A wave of relieved movement ripples through the room as guests rise, seeking fresher air or stronger drinks. Draco is immediately cornered by his father.

In the shift, you find yourself momentarily alone near the grand terrace doors, the cool night air a relief against your skin.