Plates clatter. Students shout. Laughter echoes off the enchanted ceiling, currently a clear, bright blue. The scent of bacon and toast hangs thick in the air.

You are at the Slytherin table. The bench is hard under you. To your left, the space is empty. To your right, taking up far more room than any one person should, is Mattheo Riddle.

He’s leaning back, one arm draped along the bench behind you, not touching. His other hand scrolls slowly through his phone, the screen casting a pale glow on his sharp features. His black curls are messy, like he’s run his hands through them one too many times this morning.

He hasn’t looked at you once.

Across the table, Draco Malfoy is holding court, recounting some Quidditch play with exaggerated hand motions. Pansy Parkinson laughs too loudly at everything he says.

Mattheo’s knee brushes against yours under the table. It’s an accident. Probably. It doesn’t move away.

Blaise Zabini, sitting opposite, glances between the two of you, a faint, curious smirk on his lips.