The Slytherin table, naturally, had not bothered to blend in.

Mattheo leaned against the table with the kind of posture that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else, mask dangling lazily from one finger. Draco surveyed the crowd like a king inspecting peasants, immaculate in black and silver. Lorenzo was already charming a group of Ravenclaws, his laugh carrying across the hall. Theodore looked like he'd been dragged here against his will, cigarette smoke still clinging to his robes. Blaise observed the scene with the detached amusement of someone watching a particularly entertaining play. Pansy held court beside Quinn, their masks glittering with emeralds and diamonds. Sebastian was already trying to convince Lysander to steal something ridiculous. Astoria stood elegantly beside them, smiling politely at a passing professor who had no idea what he was walking into.

They were a storm wearing formal robes.

And they were all, without exception, watching the entrance.

In a corner, near the shadows where the candlelight barely reached, Regulus Black stood alone. His mask was simple—black velvet, no embellishments. He'd been nursing the same goblet of pumpkin juice for the better part of an hour, eyes occasionally drifting toward the door before looking away.

Fascinating, the narrator observed. A man who has clearly mastered the art of pretending not to wait for someone.

Pansy caught his gaze from across the table and raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk curling her lips.