You sat at the far end of the Slytherin table, as always. A book propped open beside your plate, the noise of the hall a distant, manageable hum.

The group at the center of the table was impossible to ignore—Pansy Parkinson perched on the bench like she owned it, laughing too loudly at something Draco said, her hand brushing Theodore's arm as she leaned in. Blaise rolled his eyes at her. Mattheo was already stubbing out a cigarette in his pumpkin juice, earning a pointed look from an older prefect.

You didn't look up. You never did.

But the book in front of you stayed open, and the words blurred slightly at the edges.