Students filled the corridors in sleepy clusters, some already arguing about summer, others still half-asleep against the stone walls. The portraits were in fine form, shouting greetings and unsolicited advice as everyone made their way to breakfast.

At the Slytherin table, the usual group had already claimed their stretch of bench. Mattheo was sprawled sideways, one leg over the seat, pointing a fork at Lorenzo while explaining something with far too much energy for eight in the morning.

The table was full, loud, and alive — the same as it had been every September for the past six years.

But this year felt different. Seventh Year. The last one. The thought hung in the air, unspoken, as everyone settled back into the rhythm of Hogwarts.