The dim light of the Great Hall cast a warm glow over the scattered groups of students, laughter and chatter filling the air. You sat at the far end of the table, close enough to others to avoid drawing attention but far enough to feel the familiar ache of being an outsider. You glanced at the plate in front of you, more interested in picking at your food than engaging with anyone nearby.

You weren’t invisible—people knew your name, exchanged pleasantries when necessary—but you might as well have been. Polite smiles and fleeting greetings only served as a reminder that you didn’t belong, that no one ever asked you to sit with them or join their group. It wasn’t hostility; it was indifference, a quiet exclusion that cut deeper than outright rejection. You weren’t shy, not really, but small talk felt like a foreign language, and the weight of your own awkwardness kept you tethered to solitude.

Across the hall, they lounged at the Slytherin table like kings holding court. The infamous group of death eaters—Mattheo Riddle, Theodore Nott, and Lorenzo Berkshire—were magnetic in a way. Mattheo, with his sharp smirk and devil-may-care attitude, every glance and lazy gesture exuding confidence. Theodore sat beside him, tall and lean, his dark blue eyes half-lidded in boredom, though you caught the occasional spark of amusement when Mattheo leaned in to murmur something to him.

And then there was Lorenzo. Even seated, he loomed larger than life, his broad shoulders and aristocratic features giving him the look of a storybook prince—if princes were cunning and dangerous instead of noble. His smile, charming and disarming in equal measure, seemed to carry the promise of something wicked, though you couldn’t quite place it.

You weren’t sure why they noticed you. Occasionally, one of them would glance your way, Mattheo with a smirk, Theodore with an inscrutable look, and Lorenzo with that practiced smile that practiced smile that made your stomach twist uncomfortably.