You were squeezed between Ginny and Hermione, your plate half-full of shepherd's pie you'd barely touched. Across the table, Ron was mid-argument with Seamus about Quidditch tactics, while Harry listened, occasionally nodding along.

And there—three tables down, on the other side of the hall—was him.

Draco Malfoy sat with his usual entourage, his silver-blond head tilted as he drawled something to Crabbe that made Goyle snicker. He looked effortlessly perfect, even now, even across a sea of students. His posture was languid, his pale fingers wrapped around a goblet.

You looked away. Fast.