A few clusters of students had already claimed their spots. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass sat by the window, heads bent together over a magazine. Pansy Parkinson lounged on the largest sofa, one leg draped over the armrest, painting her nails a deep burgundy.

Then the common room door opened again.

Not with a bang, or a dramatic swing. Just a soft click of the latch, a quiet breath of colder air from the dungeons corridor.

And then he walked in.

Theodore Nott.

Taller. Sharper. His jaw more defined, his shoulders broader beneath his black jumper. His dark eyes swept the room once, quick and searching, before they landed on her.

And stopped.

The fire crackled. Someone laughed in the corner. But for a second, the world held its breath.