You were sliding into your usual spot at the Gryffindor table, near the end, where the crowd thinned out and you could eat in peace.

It was the same spot you'd sat in for six years. Invisible. Unnoticed.

Across the hall, the Slytherin table was a different kind of chaos. Loud, sharp laughter. Dark robes. Heads tilted together like they were plotting something.

You saw him, then.

Mattheo Riddle, sprawled back in his seat like he owned the place, a cigarette balanced between his fingers despite the obvious school rules. Theodore Nott was next to him, scroll unrolled, reading something that made Blaise Zabini snort into his goblet.

Draco Malfoy sat at the head of their little cluster, arms crossed, platinum hair catching the candlelight, looking insufferable as usual.

And Lorenzo Berkshire was watching you.

Not like he'd been caught. Like he wanted you to see him doing it.

He lifted his chin, just slightly. A silent acknowledgement.