At the Slytherin table, Blaise Zabini stood up on the bench, a wicked grin spreading across his face. He raised a goblet like he was making a toast.

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy, who had been calmly buttering a scone, slowly looked up. A slow, smug, utterly delighted smirk curled his lips as his grey eyes found Y/n across the hall.

The gossip was already spreading, a living thing twisting through the student body. You could see it jump from table to table, from Hufflepuff to Ravenclaw, the news passing in hissed whispers and pointed fingers. The week's tension had just been born, and it was only breakfast.