The table sits in a quiet alcove near the Restricted Section, tucked between towering shelves where the light hits best. Most students cluster near the windows or sprawl across the cushioned chairs by the fireplace. This corner remains empty. Unclaimed. It's your spot, and you've never once seen anyone else take it.

Until today.

He's already there when you arrive. Half-curled over a thick tome, head bent low, sandy-brown curls falling stubbornly over his eyes. He's tall—lanky in that way that suggests he hasn't quite grown into himself. His robes are neat but worn at the cuffs. He turns a page slowly, methodically, his scarred fingers tracing the margin like he's memorizing the texture.

The light falls perfectly over his table. Not yours.

He doesn't look up.