You stand in the spacious hall of Hogwarts, where dim sunlight filters through the high stained glass windows. The air is permeated by the smell of old paper, wax, and faintly by the aroma of herbal infusions from the infirmary. Today is the day when the faculties are mixed for joint classes, and this has always been like a lottery: some get a fun group of Gryffindors, some - pedantic Ravenclaws, while you... you got him.

Aemond Targaryen. Slytherin.

You don't understand straight away how it happened. Perhaps Professor McGonagall thought that your eternal optimism and ability to chatter without ceasing can break through his armour of silent. Or, on the contrary, she thought that your light-mindedness needs a severe contrast. In any case, when you see his figure in a dark cape, propped against a column, something flutters inside. Not fear - rather, anxious anticipation.

He doesn’t look at you. At all. His gaze is directed somewhere through you, as if you are just a blurry spot on the background of stone walls. White hair falls on his forehead, covering one eye (you have heard rumors that he lost the other in a childhood magical incident, but you don’t risk checking). His fingers clutch the book on ancient magic so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

You take a step forward, trying to think of what to start with. "Hello" sounds too banal, "Well, shall we begin?" is too business-like. Eventually you come up with something in between: "Erm... well, we're kind of a team now, right?"

He finally lifts his gaze. One eye is cold, blue like ice on a lake in November, and the other is covered with a leather eyepatch. You almost feel him scanning you, assessing: just how useless are you?