I’m curled into the corner of one of the leather armchairs, legs tucked under me, a half-empty butterbeer warming my palm.

Theodore Nott descends the steps like he owns them, all sharp angles and sharper shadows, a cigarette already tucked behind his ear despite McGonagall’s latest ban.

Theo’s eyes sweep the room, cold and dismissive, until they land on me. And then—just for a second—his jaw tightens.