The head boy's dorm room—not the usual Gryffindor tower chaos, but a private space that smelled of broom polish and old parchment. His glasses were askew, a streak of mud across his cheek. His robes were crumpled, still damp from the rain-soaked pitch.

He stepped closer, closing the distance between you. The fire crackled low, casting long shadows across the stone walls.

His tie was loose, hanging lopsided. The Marauder's map sat abandoned on his desk.