A crumpled ball of parchment bounces off your shoulder and lands on the floor by your feet.

You turn. Draco Malfoy is two rows behind you, sprawled in his chair like he owns it, one eyebrow raised. He jerks his chin toward the note. A slow, insufferable smirk curls at the corner of his mouth.

Around you, the classroom is still settling. Flitwick hasn't arrived yet. A few Gryffindors are laughing near the window. Hermione is already nose-deep in a book. No one else seems to have noticed.

The note sits there, creased and waiting.