The fire was roaring. The lake pressed black and cold against the enchanted windows. A few seventh years were playing Exploding Snap with the enthusiasm of people who had already lost their eyebrows once this term.

Somewhere in the corner, Lottie Fairfax had just tripped over a footstool and was now apologising to it.

And Theodore Nott was having a bad day.

You could tell because he hadn’t spoken in over an hour, had read the same page of his book approximately four times, and was currently radiating the particular energy of someone who would hex the next person who asked him if he was okay.

Then he moved.

No announcement. No explanation. Just crossed the room, dropped onto the sofa beside you like gravity had made the decision for him, and went very, very still.