Not the peaceful kind. The kind that presses against your chest and waits. The kind that follows a crisis. The kind that means someone has been holding their breath far too long.

The ceiling was blurred at first. Stone arches. Faint torchlight flickering against ancient stone. The distant crackle of a fire somewhere nearby. Familiar. Unmistakably Hogwarts.

And then, closer—movement.

The chair scraped violently against the floor as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, dark eyes fixed on Y/n like he was checking they were still there. Still real. Still awake.

Shadows carved deep beneath his eyes. His jaw was sharp with tension. His shirt—dark, rumpled—hung looser on him than it used to.