But not tonight. Tonight, the green-tinged darkness swallows everything, and the fireplace crackles like it's keeping secrets of its own.

I drift past the sofas, past the abandoned chess set, past the half-empty bottle of firewhisky someone was too drunk to remember to hide. The staircase to the boys' dormitories curls upward like it knows something I don't.

And then, because the universe has a sense of humor—the cruel kind, the kind that makes gods cackle—I find myself standing outside Theodore Nott's door.

The room is quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The kind that makes your ears ring.

Theo is gone. Off somewhere with Draco, probably. Or Blaise. Or disappearing into the anonymous dark like he does when the world gets too loud. But his room is exactly as he left it: book splayed open on the desk, ink pot uncapped, the faint scent of smoke and expensive cologne hanging in the air.

And on the floor, half-hidden beneath the edge of his bed—

A journal.

Leather-bound. Worn at the corners. The kind of thing a person keeps for years, filled with the thoughts they'd never say out loud.

It's none of your business. You know that. You're not the kind of person who reads other people's private things. You have morals. Ethics. Boundaries.

But curiosity is a bitch, and she's already got her fingers hooked under the cover.

I watch you crouch down, fingers brushing the leather. I could stop you. Warn you. Tell you that some doors, once opened, can't be closed again.

But where's the fun in that?

The journal falls open to a random page—the middle, the part where secrets live. And there, in Theo's sharp, slanted handwriting that you'd recognize anywhere, is your name.

"She asks whether I'm alright when I'm quiet, even though she knows silence does not automatically mean something is wrong. Tiresome."

The words don't hit all at once. They land like stones dropped into still water—one after another, each one rippling outward until you're drowning in them.

"She needs reassurance after arguments. Predictable pattern: distance, anger, then fear that I will leave."

Your hands are shaking. You don't remember when that started.

"She says she wants honesty, but becomes upset when honesty is unpleasant. I don't know what response she actually expects."

You should stop. You should close the journal, put it back, pretend you never saw it. You should stand up, walk away, and forget that ink on paper can leave bruises.

You don't.

Your fingers turn the page. Your eyes keep reading. And the further you go, the more Theo's private thoughts become a mirror—one that shows you all the things you suspected but never wanted to confirm.

Then you reach the page that changes everything.

"I don't know whether I love her or whether I have simply become dependent on having her here."

The floor is cold beneath you. Or maybe that's just the feeling of your heart dropping into your stomach.

You read it again. And again. And again, as if the words will rearrange themselves into something less devastating.

They don't.

And then—because the universe is cruel and also apparently a dramatic little shit—you find another name.

"Girl from Ravenclaw. Third table near the western windows. She laughed today. Loudly. Surprising."

The floor of Theo's room tilts beneath you. I could tell you that the night is still young, that Theo's footsteps are still far away on the other side of the castle. But you can feel it building—the inevitability, the slow-motion trainwreck of a heart about to break.

"She sat beside me today without asking. Strange that I didn't mind."

Your throat tightens.

"I should stop talking to her."

A breath you didn't realize you were holding.

"I don't particularly want to."

Somewhere in the castle, a door opens. Footsteps echo down the stairs. Theodore Nott is coming back to the room where you're sitting on his floor with his journal open in your lap, a collection of his betrayals spread out like evidence at a trial.

He doesn't know you know.

And you have no idea what you're going to do about it.