His pale fingers trace the spine of a book he hasn't turned a page of in ten minutes, his gaze fixed on the shape of her beneath the old Slytherin blanket—a familiar lump of silver and green You're going to wrinkle it.

A muffled voice emerges from the depths of the fabric It's already got a hole in the corner from when Pansy tried to set fire to my Transfiguration essay.

A corner of his mouth lifts, a rare softness in the sharp lines of his face That was second year. You're still holding a grudge.

I'm holding a narrative.

Remember when we were eleven, and I hexed that portrait for calling you "the pale one"?

His smirk widens, the memory settling over him like an old coat You set it on fire.

Sitting up now, the blanket pooling around her waist I did not set it on fire.

You were holding a wand. And there were flames.

A snort escapes her It was a controlled blaze.

Quietly, almost to herself Do you ever miss when things were simpler?

His grey eyes find hers, steady and unflinching We were never simple.