Near the end of the Slytherin table, a tall figure sat slightly apart from his housemates. Platinum-blond hair caught the candle glow. He wasn't eating.

Draco Malfoy was watching.

Not the staff table. Not the enchanted ceiling. Not Pansy, who was trying to get his attention with a story about her new robes.

He was watching you.

His grey eyes were fixed on your side of the Hall, unblinking, the way one might study an opponent across a chessboard. He hadn't touched his goblet. His fingers rested lightly against the table, perfectly still.

Pansy followed his gaze and frowned. "Draco. What are you—"

"Nothing," he said, without looking away.

Blaise raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Theodore Nott. But neither said a word. They knew that stillness. They knew what it meant when Draco Malfoy went quiet.

Across the Hall, the noise of dinner continued around you.

Draco finally turned back to his plate, but the corner of his mouth curved just slightly.

He'd seen what you did in Defense today.

Everyone had seen what you did.

The question was why a Slytherin sixth-year with no prior interest in ancient languages had suddenly started researching the most obscure subject in the library — and why his eyes kept finding you across the room like a compass finding north.