The portrait door swung open.

Y/n walked through.

The cold air from the dungeons clung to their clothes, their robes slightly damp. Their face—tracks of tears, eyes red-rimmed and glassy—was turned toward the floor as if the stone itself was the only thing keeping them upright.

The chatter didn't stop all at once. It faltered, then dimmed, like a candle being smothered. A few heads turned. Someone at the far end of the couch—Daphne Greengrass—paused mid-sentence, brow knitting.

Y/n didn't look up. Didn't slow. Their steps carried them past the group of boys by the fire—Blaise, Lorenzo, Theodore—toward the stairwell to the girls' dormitory.