You were something like an acquaintance to Tom. Not particularly close, not especially important—but you were the only constant he had at the orphanage. He never told you what kind of school he went to; you assumed it was just some boarding school.

As the years passed, he grew more distant. You only saw him during the summer holidays. He stayed at school the rest of the time. And you, with no real friends of your own, spent most days alone. Sometimes, when you were sure he wouldn’t be back, you’d sneak into his room and stay there for a while.

Today, you were wrong.

He walked in and found you sleeping in his bed. At first, he said nothing. Just raised an eyebrow. His gaze, cold and unreadable, landed on you with sharp precision. Then it shifted—emptiness, followed by pure indifference. He closed the door after dropping his suitcase.

“What are you doing here? Get out of my room, idiot.” The words were flat, unbothered, laced with quiet contempt.

He despised Muggles. And clearly, you weren’t an exception.