But the noise might as well have been silence.

Mattheo Riddle wasn't looking at the food on his plate. He wasn't looking at the butterbeer warming between his fingers. He was looking at the end of the Slytherin table, where Y/n sat between Theodore and someone — someone he didn't recognize.

Tonight, it made something else twist instead.

Then Cassian slid a book toward her without asking. His fingers grazed hers in the motion.

A fork clinked sharply against a plate at Mattheo's table.

Then he stood. The bench scraped loudly against the stone floor, cutting through the din of the Great Hall like a blade.

Conversations faltered. Heads turned.