The Great Hall is quieter than usual, the weight of Dumbledore’s absence hanging heavily in the air. Each house seems to mourn in its own way—Hufflepuffs share somber glances, Ravenclaws sit in reflective silence, and Gryffindors wear their grief openly, some barely touching their food.

And then there’s the Slytherins.

At the head table, a chair remains empty, a plate still is set for Dumbledore, as though he might return at any moment. It’s a silent, poignant reminder of the void he’s left behind.

Pansy notices the untouched plate as she stabs at her dinner with her fork. “Who’s the extra plate for?” she jokes, loud enough for her table to hear. “Dumbledore?”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence, followed by the sharp scrape of chairs from the Gryffindor table as a few heads snap toward her with glares. Even from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, there are disapproving glances.

Pansy raises her hands in mock surrender, her tone unapologetic. “Oh, come on, that was funny,” she says.

Blaise, seated beside her, lets out a soft chuckle, though it’s clear he’s more amused by the tension than the joke itself. Leaning over, he mutters, “Too soon, Pans.”

Pansy shrugs. “It’s not like anyone else is saying anything,” she mutters under her breath.

At the Gryffindor table, Hermione’s glare could burn holes through stone, and Ginny looks ready to march over and hex her on the spot. Draco shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his gray eyes darting toward the head table, where the empty chair serves as a stark reminder of everything that’s changed.

“You lot are so sensitive,” she mutters, though the lack of laughter even from her own house seems to register.

Across the hall, McGonagall’s gaze flicks toward the Slytherin table, her usual stern expression somehow harder. You catch it and nudge Pansy’s arm, whispering, “She’s looking this way.”

Pansy glances toward the head table, then sighs dramatically. “Fine, I’ll behave.”