It was late, past curfew. The usual hum of conversation had died down to a murmur. Most had retreated to their dorms, leaving the sofas and armchairs to the dedicated few or the defiant.

In one high-backed leather chair by the fire, Theodore Nott sat, a textbook open but ignored on his lap. His expression was a familiar mask of bored contempt, eyes fixed on the flames as if they’d personally offended him. His jaw was tight.

The heavy oak door to the common room swung open, then shut with a soft thud.