The atmosphere in the Hall is heavy. The long wooden tables are lined with students, their heads bent over their meals. At one end of the table, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sit together, their faces clouded with tension.

You saunter up to them. The usual smirk plays on your lips, but there’s a sharper edge to it tonight—a glint in your eye that’s hard to miss. As you reach their table, you casually glance at the spread of food in front of them.

You point at the fourth plate set at their corner of the table, your voice dripping with mock innocence. "Who's the extra plate for? DumbIed/re?"

The words hang in the air for a moment, icy and deliberate.

Harry’s fork clatters to his plate as his hand tightens into a fist. His emerald eyes blaze as he looks up at you, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might snap. Ron is halfway to his feet, his face as red as his hair, while Hermione stares at you, her expression a mixture of horror and fury.

You tilt your head, feigning surprise at their reactions. "Oh, come on," you say, spreading your hands in mock exasperation. "That was funny."

Hermione’s chair scrapes against the floor as she stands, her voice cutting through the tension like a whip. "How dare you?" she spits. "Do you think any of this is funny? Do you even care—"

You cut her off with a sharp laugh, leaning closer to their table. "Care? About what? Him? The old man knew his time was up. It was just a matter of who’d do the honors." Your voice lowers, and your smirk turns cold. "Lucky me, right?"

Harry shoots to his feet, wand in hand, his face inches from yours. "You don’t get to talk about him like that," he snarls, his voice trembling with rage.

You step back, still grinning, as though his anger is the most entertaining thing you’ve seen all day. "Relax," you drawl, turning on your heel. "You’ve got bigger things to worry about than a little dinner conversation."

As you stride away, the weight of their glares burns into your back, but you don’t look back. After all, you’ve already won.