On weekends, seventh years could visit Hogsmeade in groups—you with your friends, Tom with his crew of smug, posh Slytherins. You couldn’t stand any of them. Especially not him. You and Tom were always at odds, constantly vying for the top spot in every class. To put it simply, you hated each other.

But for some reason, Tom seemed fascinated by you—how you worked, how you always tried to outdo him. That’s why he watched you, even now. It was midwinter, snowing hard, and you were freezing.

When your group headed into the Three Broomsticks to warm up, he slipped away from his friends and followed. He slid into the seat beside you, uninvited. You ignored him, jaw tightening every time he tossed out a snarky comment.

“You look cold. Gloves?” he said finally, smirking as he pushed his black gloves toward you.