He was already at your door before he realised he’d walked here.

Your desk was a disaster. Files stacked in uneven towers, parchment scattered, a half-empty cup of tea gone cold. And there, caught in the low lamplight, you stood with your wand still in hand, sleeves rolled up, hair escaping from whatever containment you'd attempted this morning.

The stack wobbled.

Then fell.

A cascade of parchment and photographs scattered across the floor. He exhaled sharply, bending down with a muttered—