You were stationed near the front, your notes neat and organized, your wand steady. Across the room, near the back corner, Mattheo Riddle was doing absolutely nothing productive.

He wasn't even pretending. His chair was tilted back on two legs, one arm draped over the empty seat beside him, his wand twirling lazily between his fingers. His dark curls were a mess, his tie undone, and the faint smirk on his face suggested he found the entire lesson deeply amusing.

Then the feather exploded.

Not dramatically—no fire, no debris. But it swelled to the size of a pillow, burst into a cloud of glittering blue sparks, and sent three Ravenclaws diving for cover as their cauldrons tipped over in the chaos.

A girl screamed. Someone's essay caught fire. A boy near the window began floating gently toward the ceiling, arms flailing.