The Hogwarts library was quiet in the way that only happened after curfew — no first-years whispering about Quidditch, no seventh-years frantically revising, just the low crackle of the enchanted lamps and the faint rustle of pages.

You weren't supposed to be there. Obviously. But the restricted section didn't guard itself, and you'd gotten very good at slipping past the rope charms after two years of practice.

You'd found what you were looking for — a crumbling book on blood wards, wedged between Secrets of the Darkest Art and a volume that hummed when you got too close. You'd only meant to read a few pages. Maybe copy a diagram. Nothing dramatic.

Then the library door opened.

Your brother. Tom. Of course it was Tom. Because the universe loved a joke at your expense.

His footsteps echoed between the shelves — slow, deliberate, the walk of someone who'd already decided you were guilty and was simply deciding the punishment.

The faint swish of his robes grew closer. He stopped two shelves away, probably checking the shadows with that annoyingly calm expression he wore when he was about to lecture you into an early grave.