Y/n was curled at the head of his bed, back against the headboard, a well-worn copy of Hogwarts: A History open in their lap. The book was mostly a prop; their gaze kept drifting to the door, listening for footsteps on the spiral staircase.

The room smelled like him. It was the particular scent of broomstick polish, old parchment, and something faintly like cinnamon that Y/n had long since stopped trying to name aloud. It was too much, sometimes, the way his presence lived in every corner.

A distant thud echoed from below—the sound of the common room door. Then the unmistakable rhythm of boots taking the stairs two at a time.

The door swung open without a knock.

The silence stretched a beat too long between them, the way it always did now—full of everything neither of them would say.