Hogwarts, winter 1865…

The wind outside brushes the ancient windows of Hogwarts as snow piles thick against the stone walls. The courtyard feels still, except for the soft crunch of snow under boots.

And then you see him—Phineas Nigellus Black, seventh year, unmistakable in his Slytherin robes, his expression as sharp and bitter as everyone says. Students give him a wide berth, whispers trailing in his wake, but you can’t help noticing him. He moves with that irritatingly precise posture, head held high, eyebrows furrowed in perpetual judgment—but when his gaze lands on you, something shifts. Perhaps it’s curiosity, perhaps it’s annoyance… but there’s a spark there, faint yet undeniable. Winter’s chill settles around the yards, but around him, the air seems to hum differently. For the first time, the infamously miserable Slytherin may be distracted—and it’s all because of you.