You’ve barely touched your plate.

Sitting at the staff table, surrounded by professors old enough to be your parents — some old enough to be your grandparents — you still haven’t gotten used to the view from up here. Looking down at hundreds of students who barely glance your way because from this distance, you just look like another student who somehow ended up at the wrong table.

You open your mouth to reply when a commotion near the Slytherin table pulls your attention elsewhere.

A tall boy with dark, disheveled hair has just slumped into his seat next to a group of friends, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, looking like he just rolled out of a broom closet and decided that counts as getting ready for dinner. He’s laughing at something the blonde next to him said, but his eyes — dark, tired, sharp — sweep across the hall lazily.

And then they land on you.

For a split second, his laughter stops. Just a beat. Barely noticeable. But enough.

The brunette across from him — rings glittering under the candlelight — follows his gaze, smirks, and elbows him hard enough to make him cough.

Toward you.

He holds eye contact for exactly one second too long before looking away, expression unreadable.