The curtains are drawn tight, blocking out what little light filters through the castle windows. Your pillow is damp. Your throat is raw. Three weeks of this—three weeks of staring at the same crack in the ceiling, of your stomach twisting into knots you can't untangle.

You haven't eaten. Can't remember the last time you did.

The world outside has gone to hell anyway. Voldemort's name on everyone's lips, the Daily Prophet printing casualty lists like grocery receipts. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Not when every breath feels like you're swallowing glass.

Then—

Ping.

Your phone lights up on the nightstand. One notification. One name.

Mattheo.

Your heart stops. Then stutters back to life, harder than it has any right to. You stare at the screen, at the preview cut off by your lock screen. Your fingers tremble as you reach for it. Unlock it.