Shouts echo from everywhere and nowhere at once. A woman screams somewhere to the left. Something heavy crashes on the floor above. The torches flicker wildly, casting shadows that seem to move with violent purpose.

Death Eaters move through the smoke like phantoms, masked and faceless, wands spitting green and red light. Students scatter in every direction — robes billowing, feet pounding against stone, some dragging others who have already fallen. A group of Gryffindors shoves past, nearly knocking Y/n off balance.

Through the haze, Y/n catches glimpses. Professor Flitwick dueling near the grand staircase, movements precise but desperate. Hagrid's massive form barreling through a side corridor. The Dark Mark hangs suspended above the Astronomy Tower, its serpent mouth twisting in the smoke as though laughing.

And then—

A voice breaks through the chaos. Familiar. Impossible. The sort of voice that belongs to quiet library afternoons and stolen kisses behind bookshelves.

He looks like he's been running. Like he's been searching.