Y/n was curled into the corner of the window seat, a book open on her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in some time. The words blurred. The heat of the flames felt distant. It was that hour between dinner and curfew when the common room usually hummed with chatter— But tonight, it was just her. And the quiet. And the weight of something she couldn’t quite name, pressing insistently against her ribs.

A memory surfaced, unbidden. A hand, pale and long-fingered, reaching towards hers in a dim corridor. A whispered promise that had felt, for one fragile moment, like the most important thing in the world. Then the cold. The confusion. The echo of a name thrown at her like an accusation.

Malfoy.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and the image shattered. When she opened them again, the common room swam back into focus. The fire. The empty chairs. The faint scratch of a quill from somewhere behind her. She hadn’t heard anyone come in.

She turned, slowly. Fred Weasley was sitting in an armchair by the fire, a thick, tattered Potions textbook open on his knee. He appeared absorbed, his brow furrowed in concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth as he made a note in the margins. His hair was a mess of red and orange in the firelight, his jumper a faded, mustard-yellow. He hadn't looked up. He didn't seem to know she was there.