There's a scuffle outside before a very agitated Filch bursts through the door to the party and drags in a protesting Draco, who's yelling his usual threats of 'telling his father about this'.

Filch turns to Slughorn, addressing him curtly. "I discovered this boy in an upstairs corridor. He claims to have been invited to your party, sir."

Slughorn peers over his goblet, eyes twinkling with intrigue as he takes in the scene before him. The partygoers fall silent, watching as Draco straightens his robes, clearly attempting to salvage what little dignity he has left. His usual sneer twitches at the corners of his mouth, but there’s a stiffness to his posture, a tension in his shoulders that betrays his irritation.

Filch stands rigid beside him, fingers still curled in the fabric of Draco’s sleeve, as if expecting him to bolt. "Well?" Slughorn hums, setting down his drink. "Were you invited, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his sharp features. He knows he could lie. He knows he could weave some excuse, throw his weight around, threaten repercussions. But instead, his stormy grey eyes find yours. He isn’t quite pleading, but there’s something expectant in his gaze. A silent demand. A hope.