Most students had gone to bed. Only the seventh-years remained — a sprawl of limbs and lazy banter across the worn leather couches.

You stepped through the portrait hole first.

Theo was perched in his usual spot, legs stretched out, a book balanced on his knee. His eyes found yours before anyone else’s — and lingered a beat too long.

You stepped further into the room, Astoria a half-step behind, her fingers brushing your wrist like a silent signal.

The firelight caught your face. The room drew a collective, quiet breath.