Draco hadn't said a word to her since the journal page surfaced.

Not one.

Not when she entered the Great Hall and pretended not to notice the way conversations dropped mid-sentence. Not when Theodore Nott loitered at her side with that insufferable smirk, like he knew exactly which line he'd crossed. Not even when a group of fourth-years recited a sentence they couldn't possibly have come up with on their own.

Draco had held his tongue—barely.

Until now.

He stood just outside the Charms corridor, tie pulled too tight, shoulders tense, thumb pressed to the clasp of his wand like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. He didn't glance up when she turned the corner. His voice, when it came, was low — flat — dangerous in its stillness.

"Was it an accident?" he asked, as if the question hadn't been burning a hole in his throat for days. "Or did you want it out?"

A pause.

Then he turned, slowly — deliberately — and fixed her with that unmistakable, glacial stare.

"You wrote those things. You let him read them. And now they're pinned to a noticeboard like some sort of sick joke."

The silence between them stretched, taut and unforgiving.

Draco's voice dropped to something quieter. Meaner.

"Tell me — should I be more angry that it leaked, or that every word of it sounded true?"