A Visit from Slytherin (I)

Pansy Parkinson sat in the chair to Draco's right, a copy of Wizarding Weekly spread across her knees as she flipped through it with great interest, occasionally writing something on the parchment beside her. Blaise Zabini leaned against the window, twirling an unlit cigar in his hand. The firelight from the fireplace reflected in his brown eyes, and his expression was as usual—lazy, indifferent to everything. Yet his gaze lingered on Draco several times, each time a little longer than usual.

The flames in the fireplace flickered, letting out a crisp crackle.

Draco set down his Butterbeer and stood.

Without saying a word, he adjusted the collar of his robes and headed toward the exit of the common room. His pace was neither fast nor slow, but every step was firm, the soles of his boots making soft, rhythmic thuds against the carpet.

The chicken leg in Crabbe's hand hung suspended in midair, grease dripping down his fingers without his notice. Goyle's mouth hung open, half a sandwich still inside it, unchewed. Pansy finally looked up from her magazine. She watched Draco's retreating back, her lips moving as though she wanted to say something, but in the end, she said nothing.

Blaise shifted the cigar from his left hand to his right, the corner of his mouth curling slightly.

The corridor was quiet.

Curfew had already passed. Filch was probably crouched in some corner of the castle on patrol, and his cat—Mrs Norris, who had been petrified—was still lying in the Hospital Wing. Filch was probably there too. There were no footsteps, no whispers, only the faint crackling of torches burning in their iron brackets and the vague sound of water flowing through distant pipes.

Draco walked through the corridor alone. He had not brought Crabbe or Goyle, nor had