Y/n sat in one of the worn leather armchairs near the fire, a book open on their lap, though their gaze was elsewhere—watching the flames, the shadows shifting across the stone floor.

Muffled footsteps. A door. The quiet click of the dormitory hall swinging shut.

Theodore Nott emerged from the shadows, and—for a moment—he didn't seem to notice anyone was there. His stride was stiff, his shoulders drawn up like he was bracing for a blow. His wand hand trembled at his side, knuckles pale.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs.