You were tucked into your usual corner, a fortress of parchment and textbooks, the scent of old paper and ink a familiar comfort. Or it would have been, if the memory of Mattheo Riddle’s latest sneer hadn’t been buzzing like a trapped hornet in your skull all week.

Every class, every corridor. A muttered comment about your robes. A derisive laugh at a question you’d asked in Potions. A shoulder-check so deliberate it had nearly sent your books flying. Insufferable didn’t begin to cover it.

The heavy oak door at the far end of the aisle groaned open.

You didn’t need to look up. You knew the rhythm of those footsteps—confident, unhurried, and somehow always finding you.