The first candle had not yet burned down to the halfway mark, but the wax was already beginning to pool at the base of the brass holder. Harry sat on the bench, his posture rigid despite the comfortable wood, while Pansy watched the flickering light with a look of detached boredom. The Slytherin table was a long, dark stretch of polished wood that reflected the floating candles above, and the green banners hung in heavy, motionless folds. Harry kept his gaze on the ceiling, where the enchanted stars shifted in slow, rhythmic patterns that looked nothing like the sky outside the castle walls. He felt the ache in his legs from the hours of sitting, but he did not move.
"You are staring at the ceiling like it is going to fall on us," Pansy said, her voice cutting through the quiet of the Great Hall. She reached out to adjust a silver platter, moving it a few inches to the left for no apparent reason.
"It is more interesting than looking at you," Harry replied, though there was no heat in the jab.
Pansy laughed, a short, sharp sound that did not travel far in the vastness of the room. "The stars are supposed to be a perfect reflection of the night, but tonight they look lopsided. It is a bit unsettling."
"Everything is lopsided lately," he said. He shifted his weight, feeling the hard edge of the table against his hip. He wondered if the others would have noticed his absence if they were not all dead to the world in their dormitories.
"Do you think the stars look different in the south?" Pansy asked, leaning her chin on her hand. She looked up at the enchanted sky, where a swirl of white light drifted past a cluster of darker clouds. "Or is it just the way the enchantments are working tonight?"
"The stars are the same everywhere, Pansy. It is just the way we see them."
"That is a very sensible, very boring thing to say," she teased, poking at a stray crumb on the table. "You are becoming quite the philosopher in your old age."
Harry did not smile, because the thought of the war felt too heavy to lift for the sake of a joke. He looked up at the ceiling again, watching a constellation of bright, white points that looked like spilled salt across a black velvet cloth. The Hall was too big for the two of them, a cavernous space that made their conversation feel small and fragile. He wanted to talk about the Quidditch pitch or the ridiculousness of the new potions ingredient, but the topic of the war was a predator in the room, waiting for a moment of silence to strike.
"It feels like the sky is watching us," Pansy said, her voice dropping an octave. "As if the ceiling is a window and everyone is looking in."
"No one is looking in. Everyone is asleep."
"Are they? Or are they just pretending to be?"
Harry looked at her, seeing the way the candlelight caught the sharp line of her jaw. She was trying to keep the conversation light, but her eyes were too focused on the dark expanse above them. "They are sleeping, Pansy. Even the ghosts are probably tucked away in some corner of the castle."
"I saw a ghost near the entrance earlier," she murmured, tracing a finger along the rim of her goblet. "It looked like it was waiting for something. Or someone."
"It was probably just waiting for the wind to die down."
"You always do that," she said, a frown marring her forehead. "You answer everything with a fact when the truth is much more interesting."
He leaned back, the wood of the bench creaving his spine. He wanted to tell her that the truth was terrifying, but he did not want to ruin the stillness of the Hall. The candles above them flickered, a dozen tiny suns suspended in the darkness, and he felt the weight of the silence that followed her words. It was a heavy, invisible thing that sat between them, making it difficult to breathe.
"What are you afraid of?" Pansy asked suddenly. She was no longer looking at the ceiling, but directly at him.
Harry stiffed, his hands clenching into fists in his lap. "I am not afraid of anything. That is a ridiculous question."
"You are a terrible liar, Harry. You have always been a terrible liar."
"I am a Malfoy. We do not lie poorly; we lie with elegance."
"Then be elegant and tell me what you are actually thinking about."
He looked away, back to the enchanted stars, trying to find a way to deflect the question. The war was the elephant in the room, the shadow that lived in the corners of his mind and refused to leave. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, a constant, grinding ache that never truly left him. He thought about the darkness of the corridors and the way the castle felt like a tomb in the middle of the night.
"I am thinking about how much longer we have to sit here," he said, trying to sound casual.
"That is a coward's answer," she countered, her eyes narrowing. "You are dodging. You always dodge when the conversation gets real."
"The conversation is not getting real. It is just a Tuesday night in the Great Hall."
"It is not just a Tuesday. It is the end of the world, or so it feels."
"You are being dramatic," he said, though he knew she was right.
"Am I? Because when you look at the ceiling like that, it looks like you are searching for a way out."
Draon felt a knot tighten in his stomach. He could hear the distant ticking of a clock somewhere in the castle, a rhythmic pulse that felt like a countdown. The candles were burning lower now, the flames dancing more erratically as the wax melted. He wanted to tell her that he was tired of being brave, tired of the pretending, and tired of the constant, sharp edge of expectation.
"The sky is too bright tonight," he remarked, a desperate attempt to change the subject.
"It is not the sky that is bright, Harry. It is the light in your eyes when you are scared."
He looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. He saw the way she was watching him, her expression soft and uncharacteristically vulnerable. She was not teasing him now; she was waiting. The Hall felt smaller, the vastness of the ceiling pressing down on them like a physical weight.
"Do you think we will actually see the end of it?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper. "The end of the war, or the end of us?"
"We will see what we see," he said, his voice tight.
"That is not an answer. You never give a real answer."
"Because real answers are dangerous."
"Everything is dangerous now," she said, her hand moving to rest on the table near his. "Even sitting here. Even talking like this."
He looked at her hand, the pale skin against the dark wood, and felt a sudden, sharp pang of longing for a time when the world made sense. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, to anchor himself to something solid, but he remained still. He watched the candles, watching the way the light flickered and died in small, rhythmic pulses.
"Are you actually afraid of the dark, or are you just afraid of what is in it?" she asked, her gaze unwavering.
Harry took a breath, the air feeling cold in his lungs. He looked up at the ceiling one last time, at the stars that felt a million miles away, and then turned back to her. He knew she was waiting for the truth, and he knew that to give it to her was to give up the last of his defenses.
"I am afraid of the silence that comes after," he said.
"That is still not it," she whispered, leaning closer. "Tell me the truth