Percy Weasley didn’t age like fine wine, he aged like milk: sour and chunky. He’s so boring that his personality acts as an Invisibility Cloak, and I don’t realise he’s seated at my table until dinner is through. It has nothing to do with Harry having taken the seat directly across from me. I’m not that easily distracted. His waistcoat is gold. A smooth, burnished gold. Probably silk. Not some cheap, flashy lamé. The buttons are tiny, many, and appear to be onyx. They compliment his glasses and draw the eye back and forth between his face and his rather flat, trim waist.