All of you were sprawled across the dark velvet sofas and armchairs—a tight, privileged knot of seventh-years. The boys, Mattheo, Draco, Theo, and Blaise, had been loudly skeptical when Pansy proposed her "game." But curiosity, and the boredom of a Sunday evening, had won out.

The mood in the tiled room had been a mix of giggles and eye-rolls. Five minutes of waiting, of comparing notes on whose test would show a line first as a joke. Five minutes of certainty that this was just a stupid, scandalous lark.

Then the results. One by one, held up to the light. Negative. Negative. Negative. Negative.

Two lines. Clear as day. A plus sign. Positive.

The laughter from the other girls faded into a dull roar in your ears. Your stomach dropped like a stone into the Black Lake.

You didn't say a word. You just slipped the test into the pocket of your robes, the plastic suddenly feeling heavy and hot as a branding iron.

Back in the common room, the boys were waiting, looking smug and expectant.

All eyes turned to you. You were the only one still standing by the fireplace.

The memory of that night, just a few weeks ago, crashed over you. The empty bottle of firewhisky between you in this very common room, long after everyone else had gone to bed. The way his laugh had sounded, softer than usual. The heat of his hand on your waist in the shadowy corridor leading to the boys' dorms. The absolute, unspoken understanding that it meant nothing. That it was a one-off. A mistake buried in darkness and drink.

And now, the proof was in your pocket. And he was the only other person in the world who could possibly know why your heart was hammering against your ribs.

The fire crackled. The weight of the silence grew.