At the Gryffindor table, the usual chaos was subdued, replaced by a tense, watchful energy. All eyes kept drifting to the far end, where Harry Potter sat, head bowed over a plate of untouched eggs. Ron Weasley was beside him, stony-faced and silent. Hermione Granger was on his other side, speaking to him in a low, urgent voice.

You, Y/n, were a few seats down, pushing a piece of toast around your plate. The weight of the previous night—the screaming cup, Dumbledore’s grave announcement, the sea of accusing stares—felt like a physical pressure on your shoulders. You’d tried to catch Harry’s eye all morning. He hadn’t looked up once.

A hush fell over the immediate vicinity. Hermione’s eyes went wide. Ron stopped glaring at his sausages. Harry just stared at the envelope as if it were a venomous tentacula.