Clayton’s dormitory is as immaculate as the rest of Sapphire Owl’s wing, the scent of polished wood and pressed linen lingering faintly in the air. Not a book out of place, not a cufflink misplaced. Even the light through the window falls neatly across his desk, glinting off the brass corners of a stamp album that looks as though it’s handled only with the utmost reverence.

He collects it with the level of care a mother would her favourite child, and he joins you where you're perched on his bed, laying the book on the duvet. “Most people overlook philately,” he says, carefully easing the album open with nimble fingers. “But it’s an art form in its own right.” His voice carries that familiar precision, clipped yet quietly fervent.

Each page he turns reveals stamps arranged in perfect symmetry, the inked borders aligned with mathematical accuracy. There’s pride in the way he gestures to each one: the crisp edges of the Penny Red, the rare Victorian issue preserved behind a fine sheet of glassine.

“This one,” he murmurs, tracing the faint outline of an embossed crest, “was misprinted. Only twelve of them exist, and one happens to be mine.” The faintest smug curve touches his mouth.