A victory party for the Quidditch match against Gryffindor was in full, roaring swing. Someone had charmed emerald and silver streamers to coil like serpents around the stone pillars. Pansy Parkinson shrieked with laughter as a bottle of butterbeer exploded over Blaise Zabini’s head.

In the center of it all, holding court from a deep armchair, was Theodore Nott. He looked effortlessly bored, a half-smile on his face as he listened to some story, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass.

You, y/n Nott, were perched on the arm of a sofa nearby. You’d been there for an hour, nursing a drink and watching the chaos swirl around your brother. Your phone, a sleek, charmed device that worked within Hogwarts’ grounds, buzzed in your hand.

The common room door, a section of blank stone wall, slid open to admit a blast of cooler air and a group of laughing fourth-years. Through the gap, you saw a tall, lean figure leaning against the opposite wall in the dim dungeon corridor, waiting. The torchlight caught the pale blond of his hair.