Y/n sat in the usual corner—the one with the sagging green sofa and the table scratched with a decade of initials. Seventh years drifted in slowly, trunks thumping down the corridor to their single rooms.

Theodore Nott dropped his bag by the fire and slumped into the armchair across from Y/n. His tie was already loosened. His sleeves were shoved to his elbows. Dark hair fell over his forehead in its usual careless mess.