It’s almost curfew. The room should be thinning out. Instead, the usual crowd has lingered, pretending to read, pretending to study, pretending they don't notice the battlefield at the center table.

They’re terrible actors.

You’ve been here for three hours. Three hours of scratching out sentences, checking sources, and carefully crafting an argument on the ethical implications of Vanishing spells in wartime. The parchment is nearly full. Ink-smudged. Earnest.

He doesn't sit. He stands across from you, arms crossed, the portrait of aristocratic dissatisfaction. His school robes are undone, revealing a dark sweater beneath. His hair catches the firelight like spun silver. His expression says he’s already decided this interaction will end with him being right.

The common room holds its breath.

He reads for exactly seventeen seconds.