Music thrummed from a charmed gramophone in the corner—some wizarding band with a heavy, pulsating beat. Clusters of seventh-years lounged, drank, laughed too loudly. Pansy Parkinson was holding court by the fireplace, her shriek cutting through the bass. Blaise Zabini watched from an armchair, silent and amused.

You were perched on the arm of Draco Malfoy’s chair, his hand resting possessively on your knee. His fingers were cool, the grip just a little too tight.

That’s when you felt it—a gaze like a physical touch, steady and unblinking from across the room. Theodore Nott was leaning against the stone frame of the entrance to the boys’ dormitories, a half-empty glass in his hand. He wasn’t smiling. He was just… watching. His sharp blue eyes held yours for a beat too long before he took a slow drink, the line of his throat working as he swallowed.