The music room had long since been claimed by dust and silence, a place forgotten by every prefect and professor alike.

Evan had always liked it that way—velvet shadows stretching across the warped wood floor, cracked windows whispering the night wind through their broken teeth. He never turned on the enchanted lamps. He preferred candlelight—flickering and fickle, like most things in his life. Like him.

But not like you.

He could still taste you—bittersweet, intoxicating—your lips swollen from kissing, his own jaw aching slightly from how hard your fingers had gripped it earlier. The memory made something visceral twist low in his stomach. It wasn’t lust, not entirely. It was hunger, yes. But it was also need. That rarer, riskier thing.

He sat at the piano bench, one elbow braced on his knee, fingers hovering above the worn ivory keys. You sat cross-legged on a faded chaise nearby, watching him like he was a puzzle worth solving. You always looked at him like that, like you saw him, and still stayed.

“Don’t laugh,” he said at last, his voice low, velvet-frayed, almost casual if it weren’t for the knife-edge beneath. “If you laugh, I’ll curse the strings silent and pretend this never happened.”

He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. His hands moved before his courage did—fluid, precise, almost angry in how gently they struck the first notes. A slow, aching progression in a minor key, something half-written and wholly him. It filled the room like incense: thick, heady, sorrow-tinged.

It wasn’t just music. It was confession.

He played until his chest felt hollow, until the weight in his throat threatened to slip into something breakable. Then, finally, the last note hung in the air like a ghost.

Silence.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Didn’t need to. His back was still to you, but he could feel you—your warmth, your breath, the quiet reverence in your stillness. It undid him more thoroughly than your tongue ever had.

“I’ve never played for anyone before,” he murmured, the words careful, like they cost something. “Not even Barty, and he’s a nosy tosser.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled the ring free—dark iron, silver inlay, something old and slightly cursed. He’d worn it for three years straight. It bit into his skin on occasion, like a reminder.

Now, it was yours.

He stood slowly, came to where you sat, and didn’t ask. Just leaned forward, let the chain around your neck catch between his fingers, and slid the ring on. It settled with a soft clink, like something falling into place.

“There,” he said, voice hushed and cruelly tender. “If you’re going to haunt me, then you might as well look the part.” His eyes met yours then—storm-grey and burning. Open, raw.