Between the usual dinner chatter and the newest arrivals from Durmstrang, the ancient ceiling reflected a sky thick with clouds, casting everything in a grey, restless light.

Y/N had been trying to eat the same forkful of roast potato for the past five minutes.

Across the table, Draco made a quiet sound of amusement, and Pansy's eyes flicked toward the Ravenclaw table with sudden interest.

The Durmstrang delegation sat at the far end of the hall, a cluster of dark wool and heavy accents. One of them—tall, dark-haired, with the kind of grin that suggested he knew exactly how charming he was—kept looking in Y/N's direction.

The Durmstrang boy had already risen from his seat, threading his way between the tables with the easy confidence of someone who had never once been told no.

Mattheo's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around his goblet.