It was a Friday night, and the room was full of the usual crowd. Pansy and Blaise were arguing over a game of exploding snap, the latter's smug grin only growing as she flipped another card. Daphne was curled up in an armchair, pointedly not looking at Lorenzo, who was pretending not to watch her. Astoria was next to Draco on the sofa, their knees barely touching, some half-hearted conversation about Quidditch between them.

On the long, worn velvet couch near the fire, Theodore Nott had his arm around Y/n, her head tucked against his shoulder. His thumb traced idle patterns on her sleeve, his other hand holding his book open—though he hadn't turned a page in the better part of an hour, his attention far more fixed on the warmth of her against him.

The fire turned green.

Not the usual emerald of the Floo, but a sickly, violent shade, spitting sparks across the hearth. The temperature in the room plummeted. The lake beyond the windows seemed to darken, as if something had swallowed the light.

It wasn't loud. It was worse—a sound like reality itself tearing, a wet, sucking groan that made everyone in the room flinch. A fissure, jagged and shimmering, opened in the middle of the common room, hovering a few feet off the ground. It pulsed, a deep, unnatural purple at its edges, and there was something beyond it. Something moving.

Then a figure stumbled out.

Tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered. Dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, a cigarette still burning between his fingers. He was coughing, doubled over, one hand braced on his knee as he caught his breath.

And when he straightened—

It was Theodore.

But not.