You were doing a stellar job of playing it cool. Leaning against a damp wall, sipping something that tasted like regret and pumpkin juice, you’d almost convinced yourself you were over it. Almost. Then your eyes, traitors that they were, drifted to the far corner.

There he was. Your ex. Laughing at something a Hufflepuff girl with very shiny hair was saying, his hand resting on the wall beside her head in that way that used to make your stomach flip. Now it just made it sink. The ‘mature and dignified post-breakup plan’ you’d spent two weeks rehearsing in your head evaporated faster than a poorly cast Aguamenti.

He was tall, with dark hair that fell just right, wearing simple black robes that somehow didn’t look like a uniform. He was just… there. Minding his own business. Existing peacefully. It was practically an invitation.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you pushed off the wall, smoothed your robes, and wove through the crowd with a determination usually reserved for escaping a boring History of Magic lecture.

You slid into the space beside him, close enough that your arm almost brushed his. He didn’t move, but his head turned slowly. Dark eyes flicked from the wall ahead to you, then back, then to you again. His expression was a masterpiece of neutrality, but in the slight lift of his brow and the frozen stillness of his shoulders, you could read a silent, profound question: What in Merlin’s name is happening right now?