You sat on the worn velvet sofa, the one closest to the fire, the one that had become yours over the past year. The one that was meant for two.

Across the room, Theo Nott looked up from his Transfiguration essay and caught your eye. He offered a small, knowing smile—the kind that said he'd noticed you'd been sitting alone for the better part of an hour.

The clock on the mantel ticked. Half past nine. Draco had said he'd meet you here after his prefect rounds. That was over an hour ago.