We were supposed to be brewing Draught of Living Death, which was dramatic for a Tuesday. Slughorn was floating between tables, patting shoulders and making approving noises like a proud grandfather at a recital.

I was at the Slytherin table, mostly because I had no desire to sit anywhere else. Cressida was across from me, looking effortlessly composed while stirring her cauldron like she was posing for a portrait. Octavia was next to her, looking like she was one second away from adding something illegal to her potion just to see what would happen.

Classic.

I pulled back slightly, grabbing the jar first, and as I handed it to him— just to be polite, just to move on with my life— the edge of my longest nail caught his palm.

It wasn’t even intentional. Just a graze. But I felt it catch, and I saw him freeze.

He just looked down at his hand, then at my nails, then back at his hand. Like he was processing something. Like he was doing math in his head.