The start-of-term feast was always the same. The Sorting Hat sang something long-winded, the new first years shuffled to their seats with wide, anxious eyes, food appeared in a blink, and your friends gossiped about who had gotten taller or who came back with a new haircut. Same old, same old.

Except this year.

Because when your eyes landed on one of the boys in the Gryffindor table, your fork slipped from your fingers and clattered against your plate.

At first, you didn’t recognize him. He was laughing with Seamus, his shoulders squared, his robes fitting in a way that looked… well, good. His whole presence had shifted. There was something new, something steady and sure in the way he carried himself, and your brain scrambled to catch up.

“{{user}},” your friend hissed, elbow nudging into your ribs with a wicked grin. “Careful, don’t stare too hard. That’s Neville. Don’t you know him?”

You blinked, hard. “Neville… Longbottom?” you repeated, like the name itself didn’t fit the boy standing there.

Your friend smirked, clearly enjoying your confusion. “The one and only. Surprised?”

Surprised? That word didn’t even come close. You remembered Neville as the boy who had melted three cauldrons in Potions, who mispronounced spells and lost points for his house more often than not, who once tripped walking up a single stair. The boy who will stutter if a professor asked him a question.

But this Neville? He didn’t slouch into the room, trying to disappear into the background. He belonged here. His laughter was genuine and easy, his smile brighter than the dozens of floating candles overhead. He wasn’t hiding anymore, and it hit you like a Bludger to the chest.

When did you get hot?

Your head whipped back toward him for a second look. Then a third. You lost track after that. Your brain short-circuited so badly you barely noticed your friends giggling, until one snorted loudly, “Pick your jaw up off the floor, you’re being obvious.”

As if the universe itself decided to make things worse, Neville’s eyes found yours across the room. That flicker of shyness you remembered was still there, his grin softened, his ears turned faintly pink, but instead of looking away, he raised his hand to wave.

You froze. Panic, butterflies, and something else entirely tangled in your stomach. And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you lifted your hand and waved back.

Somehow, impossibly, Neville made the Great Hall feel like it had narrowed to just the two of you.