She was tucked against the broad trunk of a beech tree, its roots cradling her like old bones. Fifth-year notes on the properties of moonstone were spread before her, but her quill had stalled. Her finger traced the edge of the parchment, then flipped a page back.

There, hidden between diagrams of flobberworms, was a heart. And inside it, a name, doodled over and over in curling script: Theodore. Theo. T.N. Surrounded by smaller, shyer hearts.

A shadow fell across the page. A familiar, expensive scent of sandalwood and crisp linen cut through the earthy air.

He let out a soft sigh, the sound almost lost in the breeze. He looked from the page to her face, his expression shifting into one of weary, practiced resolve.