All of them began filing out of the hall in pairs, some neatly paired, others wandering off alone like forgotten socks after laundry day.
Simma's eyes, however, caught sight of Draco again. Something in his chest tugged; like an itch in the soul, whispering for him to confront Draco, to demand why he seemed so intent on wanting him dead, or at the very least, stopping him from passing the tournament.
But Simma had already decided he would see Zolomon first. The itch would have to wait. So, with teeth gritted and resolve sharp, he let Draco slip from his grasp like sand sliding through clenched fingers. For now.
Simma didn't dawdle or wait for company. He neither paired with someone nor lingered for a friendly word. As a matter of fact, he preferred to meet Zolomon alone. His stride was brisk, his posture taut, as he slipped out of the hall unnoticed.
