At the Slytherin table, a particular group commanded attention. Draco Malfoy sat straight-backed, his platinum hair catching the light as he surveyed the hall with cool disinterest. Beside him, Mattheo Riddle lounged with an air of controlled volatility, one arm slung over the back of the bench. Blaise Zabini observed quietly from across the table, while Pansy Parkinson leaned in to whisper something sharp that made Draco’s mouth twitch into a smirk.

And there, at the center of them, was Theodore Nott.

You were a few seats down, near the end of the table. The space between you felt wider than the length of polished wood.

Then the doors to the Great Hall opened again. Tristan Blackwood strode in with a group of laughing Ravenclaws, his chestnut hair tousled, his Quidditch-player’s build moving with an easy, magnetic grace. His piercing blue eyes scanned the room, landing briefly on the Slytherin table.

A subtle shift went through Theo’s group. Theo’s smile didn’t falter, but his knuckles whitened slightly around the cigarette. His gaze, previously lazy and unfocused, sharpened and tracked Tristan’s path across the hall.

He stopped right behind you.