The Great Hall is a blur of floating candles and festive cheer, but the light barely touches the Slytherin table. You see him from a low angle, a house elf scurrying past polished shoes. Draco Malfoy sits rigid, his pointed face pale under the enchanted ceiling. His grey eyes are hollow, fixed on nothing as he pushes a plate of roast turkey away. A tremor runs through his hand as he reaches for his goblet, and he glances up at the Dark Mark glowing green through the enchanted snow. He doesn't see the feast; he sees the countdown to his own damnation.