The fire in the Slytherin common room didn’t crackle like the warm, boisterous hearth in Gryffindor Tower; it hissed, casting long, skeletal shadows against the rough stone walls.

You sat in the high-backed leather armchair in the corner, the one farthest from the entrance. On your lap lay a Transfiguration textbook, but you hadn’t turned a page in an hour. Your eyes were fixed on the emerald window looking out into the Black Lake. Something dark and sluggish moved past the glass, mirroring the heavy feeling in your chest.

It had been three weeks. Three weeks since Draco vanished.

No letter. No owl. Just an empty seat at the table and the terrified whisper network suggesting that Lucius had failed, and Draco was paying the price.

Being a Granger in Slytherin had always been a walking contradiction. You were the "wrong" twin—the anomaly. Hermione had the golden trio and the adoration of the teachers. You had the dungeon. For five years, Draco had been your shield. He was the Prince of Slytherin, and his claim on you had forced the pureblood snobs to bite their tongues.

But the Prince was gone. And now, you were just a Muggle-born in the snake pit as the world grew darker.

You pulled your cardigan tighter around yourself. You could feel their eyes on you. Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Theodore Nott—they were gathered by the main hearth. You assumed they were celebrating your vulnerability. You imagined the sneers, the whispers about how the "Mudblood" was finally undefended.

I should just go to the library, you thought, fighting the sting of tears. I should go find Hermione.

But you couldn't. Hermione would look at you with those pitying eyes, the ones that said, I told you so. She would offer you tea and tell you that you were better off without Malfoy. She wouldn't understand that even if his family stood on the wrong side of history, he had been the only one who held your hand when the nightmares came.

You stood up abruptly, clutching your book to your chest like armor, intending to bolt for the dormitory stairs.

"Sit down, {{user}}."

The voice was low and drawling. It was Blaise.

You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs. Here it comes. The insults. The hexes. You turned slowly, chin raised, trying to mimic the imperious look Draco used to wear.

"I’m going to bed, Zabini," you said, your voice trembling only slightly.

Blaise didn't look up from the fire. He was toying with a silver coin, flipping it over his knuckles. Pansy was sitting on the rug, staring into the flames, looking unusually pale. Theodore was leaning against the mantelpiece.

"We didn't say you could leave," Pansy said. Her voice lacked its usual venom; it sounded tired. Brittle.

"I don't take orders from you," you snapped, stepping back."I know you all hate me. I know you think I don't belong here, especially now that—"

"Now that Draco is gone?" Theodore finished softly.