The light was softer, a muted afternoon glow filtering through enchanted glass. You were in a private room at St. Mungo’s. High ceilings, pale walls, the faint scent of antiseptic and dittany.

You could move. Your fingers flexed against crisp linen sheets. Your head felt clearer, though a dull ache persisted behind your eyes, a phantom echo of the pressure from before.

The door was closed. A figure stood beside it, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Platinum-blond hair catching the light.

He didn’t move from the wall. His storm-grey eyes tracked you, missing nothing—the slight shift of your shoulders, the measured pace of your breathing.