The hall is half-full when Y/n arrives. Students mill about in clusters, voices low and measured, the quiet hum of privilege and expectation. Mahogany desks sit in precise rows, each one worn smooth by a century of restless fingers and ink-stained hands.

At the front of the room, Professor Aldridge arranges a stack of papers with deliberate care, his spectacles catching the light. He does not look up as the last few students trickle in, taking their seats with the practiced ease of those who have done this a thousand times before.

One seat remains empty. The one beside Y/n.

The door opens.

He enters quietly—no flourish, no announcement. Just a presence that seems to suck the air from the room the moment he crosses the threshold. Slim, almost fragile in build, with pale skin and dark, unblinking eyes that sweep the room once before landing on the only available desk. On Y/n.