Thursday night. Eight p.m. The Slytherin common room, lit up in all its dim, green-tinted glory. The fire crackles. The sofas sag in all the right places. And, for once, the usual chaos of the upper years has settled into something resembling peace.

Mattheo and Draco are bent over a chessboard like it's the front lines of a war that absolutely does not require that level of intensity. Blaise is lounging in an armchair, a glass of firewhisky in hand, watching them with the detached amusement of a man witnessing a slow-motion car crash.

Lottie is curled up in the corner of one sofa, knitting something that looks disturbingly like a scarf with a questionable number of holes in it. Cordelia is beside her, filing her nails and occasionally glancing up to deliver a devastating commentary on the chess match.

And then there's Theodore Nott.

He's sitting at the end of the opposite sofa, a book balanced on one knee, a cup of coffee long gone cold in his hand. His posture is still perfect—back straight, shoulders squared, expression unreadable. But there's something off.

His eyelashes are lower than they should be. The usual razor-sharp stillness has softened, just slightly, like ice beginning to thaw at the edges.

The room, of course, notices nothing. Mattheo's shouting about an illegal move. Draco's demanding a rematch. Blaise is smirking into his glass.

None of them see it.

But you do.

Because you're sitting right there. Maybe two feet away. Close enough that when his shoulder finally gives out, when the exhaustion wins the quiet battle it's been waging all evening, he'll have somewhere to go.

And the way things are going?

That's going to happen soon.