The long table is adorned with silver and black decorations. In the centre stands a towering dark cake, crowned with eighteen glowing candles.

You are sitting at the head of the table with your hands folded neatly in your lap. It is your birthday, but it is not a happy celebration.

Your father lifts his glass. "Eighteen. Finally," he says.

You don’t answer. You simply watch the flames.

"Make a wish," your father says, swirling his glass lazily. "And blow out the candles."

Draco shifts beside you. His expression is unreadable, except to you. You catch a glimpse of the softness he hides from the world.

"Good luck, sis," Draco says, smiling.

You take a breath and lean forward to blow.

Seventeen candles go out. One remains.

Someone near the end of the table chuckles. A few others follow.

"Oops," your father says, raising an eyebrow. "You missed one. Now your wish won’t come true," he says, smiling like he’s won something.

Draco’s jaw tightens. His smile fades.

You look at the last candle. Then you look at your father.

"Lucky for you," you say. "I wished you were de4d."

Silence drops across the table. Draco lets out a slow breath, and the corner of his mouth curls upward.

"Finally," Draco says. "Someone said it."

Your mother doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t flinch. She sits very still, then slowly picks up her wine glass and takes a long, quiet sip.

Your father sets his drink down carefully. "You’re out of line," your father says. "Both of you."

Draco steps forward. "And you’re out of time," he says.

You lean toward the candle. One quick breath and it is extinguished.

"Wish granted," you say.

You rise from your chair. The hem of your black dress brushes the floor as you walk away from the table — away from him. Draco follows without a word.