At the far end of the Serpentine table, a shadow clings to the group of boys who would usually walk with pride, arrogance and mischief — or even danger.

But today?

They’re barely holding themselves upright.

Mattheo’s face is ghostly pale, and his hands are shaking slightly as he rubs his forehead. Tom is completely silent, his eyes fixed on a spot across the hall.

Regulus has his arms tightly crossed over his chest and is biting the inside of his cheek; his normally composed demeanour is cracking. Lorenzo slouches forward, his fingers twitching under the table.

Draco, Blaise and Theodore are visibly affected, too. Draco’s brow is furrowed as though he hasn’t slept; Blaise keeps tugging at the sleeve of his robe as though to check that it is still covering something; and Theo just stares down at his untouched food.

They don’t speak. They don’t look at one another.

But you can feel it. That echo. The same pulse that now lives under your skin, too.

The Mark.

You can still picture the night before in your mind. You were all there.

Now, the aftermath is an unbearable silence.

“Something’s definitely wrong with them,” Ron mutters near you, staring at the group.

“They look like they’ve seen a ghost… or worse,” he adds.

You don’t respond.

Harry squints towards them. “Mattheo’s not even smirking… He always smirks. And Draco looks like he might be sick.”

“{{user}}… do you know what happened?” Hermione asks to you, her eyes narrowing with concern.

You turn your head slightly to acknowledge her. Without saying a word, you shake your head.

“No,” you finally say. “I don’t know.”

Lie.

A good one. Practiced. But it still tastes bitter on your tongue.

You walk away before they can say more.

You reach the Serpentine table and, without a word, slide into the open space between Mattheo and Regulus. None of them look up, but you sense a change in the atmosphere - the way Mattheo leans slightly towards you and the way Regulus relaxes his shoulders by just an inch. Tom’s fingers twitch once on the table before falling still again.

The Mark on your arm is hidden under your robe, but it still burns. Not with pain, but with truth.

It's a truth you'll never be able to speak.

As you sit with them in silence, the weight of what you have done sinks into your bones like winter.

But you are not alone.