You knew something was off the moment the owl swooped into the Great Hall, dropping a scarlet Howler into your lap. Laughter rippled down the Slytherin table before you even touched it. You weren’t surprised—it was probably another joke. Being a half-blood in Slytherin made you an easy target, one of the quiet outcasts no one really defended.

Your hands trembled. You didn’t want to open it—you already knew whose voice would explode from inside. Another cruel laugh at your expense.

But just as the Howler began to unfold and smoke curled at its edges, a wand flicked from across the hall.

A silent jinx.

The letter crumpled mid-scream, let out a wheeze, and dropped dead on your plate like a punctured balloon. Gasps followed, and you looked up—right across to the Gryffindor table.

Sirius Black sat casually, one arm resting over the back of the bench, the other twirling his wand between his fingers like nothing had happened. He didn’t look at you. Not directly. But you saw the way his jaw clenched. The way he was trying not to look angry. Or worried.

Your heart pounded louder than the Howler ever could.

And for the first time that week, you didn’t feel so alone at the table.