You feel it before you see it. The absence.

The seat beside you at the Slytherin table is empty. It has been for weeks now. But this morning, it feels different. Louder. Like a missing tooth you keep running your tongue over, unable to stop.

Draco sits halfway down the table, flanked by Blaise and Theo. He's laughing at something Mattheo said—too loud, too sharp, the sound cutting through the morning noise like broken glass. His shoulders are tense beneath the pristine fabric of his robes. His tie is straight. His hair is perfect. He looks like a photograph of himself.

He doesn't look at you.

Across the table, Pansy Parkinson is recounting something about Filch's cat with theatrical disgust, and Daphne Greengrass nods along with practiced disinterest. The conversation ebbs and flows around you like water around a stone.

A letter arrives via owl. It lands in front of you with a soft flutter of wings—scrap of parchment, no return address. Just your name in handwriting you'd know anywhere. Looping. Deliberate. Slightly smudged at the edge, like someone hesitated before folding it.

You glance up. Draco is staring at his plate, jaw tight. He hasn't touched his toast.