Sloane was, unsurprisingly running late to breakfast. Not for any particular reason other than she hadn't wanted to get out of bed thanks to quidditch practice yesterday afternoon. Weekends were for resting after all, weren't they?

She hoped there were still some pancakes left— and some coffee. The fourth year had recently acquired the taste (with some sugar and cream of course!) but rather enjoyed the bitterness in the back of her throat. Skidding down the bottom of the marble staircase that led to the entrance hall, Sloane was momentarily distracted by an unfamiliar voice calling in her general direction.

"Ah, you don't?" She was both amused and alarmed by the question as she stared at the Ravenclaw carefully. Chatham maybe. The petite Gryffindor wasn't great with names and faces, but she thought that might be it.