Theodore Nott lay still in a bed near the centre. His Slytherin tie was gone. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. A faint bruise bloomed along his left temple, and his breathing had gone soft and even, as though he might wake at any moment.

The afternoon light caught the edge of his jaw, the dark spread of his lashes, the way his hand rested with unnerving calm on the folded blanket over his chest.

Then, slowly, his fingers twitched.

His eyes opened.