Normal. Boring. Safe.

You don't notice it at first.

Mid-sentence. Mid-step. Her hand actually lands on your arm to physically halt you.

Not a good sign.

She's right.

The corridor leading to the Great Hall is full of students. Normal Hogwarts traffic. People heading to breakfast, people heading to the library, people heading wherever people go at eight in the morning.

Except they're not moving.

They're watching you.

A group of Hufflepuff girls near the wall whisper behind their hands. Their eyes slide over you like they're judging something. One of them snickers. Not quietly enough.

And then there's the Slytherin table, visible through the open doors of the Great Hall, where a few of the older boys have already abandoned pretense entirely. One of them—Berkshire, you think—is leaning forward, watching the entrance like he's waiting for something.

Or someone.

The kind of look that says she knows something you don't.