Draco Malfoy sits alone at the far end of the Slytherin table, as usual. His plate is mostly untouched. He’s staring at the wood grain, one hand loosely curled around a goblet, the other resting in his lap. The students around him have left a buffer of several empty seats on either side, a moat of polished bench.

You collect your own plate from the Gryffindor table—roast chicken, potatoes, peas—and scan the room one last time. Your usual spot is taken by a group of laughing fourth-years. Your eyes land back on the blond head, the stiff set of his shoulders. You hesitate for one breath, two. Then you start walking.

The noise doesn’t drop, but you feel eyes on you as you cross the open floor between the house tables. A few conversations stutter. You don’t look at anyone else. You reach the Slytherin table and, without a word, set your plate down on the bench directly beside him. The wood creaks softly as you sit.