She was right. The text in your Advanced Potions book had long since blurred into a smear of ink. Your mind wasn’t in the dungeons. It was two weeks back, in a disused classroom on the third floor, all tangled limbs and whispered promises and the scent of him—cologne and something darker, like smoke.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Daphne knew. She’d been the one you’d told, after all, in a hushed, giddy confession by the lake.

She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though the room was empty save for the two of you.

The words didn’t sink in. They hit, like a physical blow to the chest, leaving the air thin and the firelight suddenly too bright. The memory of his laugh, low and warm against your neck, curdled into something else.