Wilber grunted—a sound not unlike a teakettle just beginning to grumble about the water temperature—as he lowered himself into the golden chair at the center of the dais. The cushion gave a resigned whoomph, as if the chair, too, was ready for a nice tropical retreat.

"Gracious," he muttered, shimmering emerald green robes bunching slightly as he wiggled and wrestled them into place. A practiced shove of his spectacles with the side of his knuckle followed. "Why do these chairs get taller every year?" He wasn’t really asking anyone in particular, though his gaze drifted sidelong toward his colleagues on either side with a knowing twinkle. One hand patted the armrest absently. "No? Just me then. It’s the altitude—I’m sure of it. Affects the knees."

Both hands patted the armrest fondly as he took in the sweep of crimson and gold decor—was this his first Gryffindor-themed feast since becoming Headmaster? Merlin, he really ought to keep up with his memory exercises. If he didn’t start challenging his brain more often, it’d go soft as treacle pudding and twice as wobbly. The Great Hall buzzed with the energy of hundreds of hungry students, but up here on the dais, things felt still for just a moment. Sacred, almost. Between the candlelight overhead and the faint scent of warm wax and brass polish, Wilber felt caught between reverence and mischief.

He reached for a napkin—only to find it dart away from his hand.

Another attempt.

Another subtle shift.

Then a soft chirrup of something smug.

"Earl," Wilber said patiently, without looking down. "We’ve talked about this." A shimmer of movement at his elbow, like heat rising off stone. Then a napkin reappeared, folded neatly and weighted with a wrapped toffee. "Ah. All is forgiven. Though I hope you've brought enough for everyone." He accepted both, unwrapping the sweet with a slight smile and casting a glance toward the rest of the staff table. "Anyone else being assisted by an overly enthusiastic demiguise tonight? Or is mine just feeling particularly festive?" The line between festive and rebellious, he mused, could be a rather fine one to parse for some. "I certainly was quite the comeback from behind, wasn’t it, Dhruv? Earl must be partial to your Gryffindors, Ean. He swears he foresaw it, though given he also predicted the dessert trolley would come alive and tango... I’d take that with a pinch of pumpkin spice."