He paused, scratched something out, and groaned in frustration.

He didn’t seem to notice anything else in the room. Not the crackling fire, not the laughter from a group of third years near the stairwell, and certainly not the fact that someone was now standing directly across the table from him.

He finally looked up. For a moment, his brow furrowed, as if he’d been interrupted mid-thought and wasn’t entirely sure by whom. Then recognition flickered across his face, and he straightened slightly, a familiar spark of competitiveness entering his eyes.

He set his quill down, folding his arms across his chest. The parchment rustled beneath his elbow.