The Durmstrang ship sat dark against the black water, its lanterns flickering like dying stars. Further up, the Beauxbatons carriage glowed faintly—blue, ethereal, annoyingly beautiful.

You'd come out here to think. Or to avoid thinking. Same thing, really.

The cold seeped through your robes. The sky was clear, scattered with stars like someone had spilled salt across black velvet. The lake shimmered. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

You should go back in. It was getting late. The common room would be warm, and Hermione would probably be waiting with some book she'd insist was interesting enough for both of you.

But you didn't move.

He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head at you with the faintest hint of amusement.