At the far end of the table, the usual constellation had settled. Pansy Parkinson, her glossy black bob catching the light, was holding court, gesturing sharply with a butter knife as she dissected someone’s summer wardrobe choices. Blaise Zabini lounged beside her, one arm draped over the back of her chair, a lazy smile on his face as he watched her work.

Draco Malfoy sat across from them, meticulously cutting a sausage into precise, identical pieces, his gray eyes flicking up occasionally to contribute a dry, perfectly-timed piece of gossip. Next to him, Theodore Nott was hunched over a book, a faint frown of concentration on his face, his dark hair falling into his eyes.

And at the table’s corner, Mattheo Riddle was sketching idly on a napkin, his broad shoulders hunched, his expression unreadable but soft around the edges. The group was a portrait of comfortable, seventh-year familiarity.

Then, the large oak doors at the entrance of the Hall creaked open. A figure stepped through, backlit by the morning sun from the Entrance Hall. For a moment, it was just another student, late for breakfast.

But then the light shifted.

Draco’s knife stilled on his plate. Theo’s eyes lifted from his book, his frown smoothing into blank shock. Blaise’s lazy smile vanished, replaced by genuine, open surprise. Mattheo’s charcoal stick snapped between his fingers.

Pansy, oblivious, was mid-rant. “—and I said to her, ‘darling, chartreuse is a statement, not a color you wear to a garden party—’”

A hush had fallen over their section of the table. Pansy paused, sensing the shift. “What? Why is everyone staring like a bunch of stunned flobberworms?”

She began to turn, but a hand, warm and familiar, covered her eyes from behind before she could.