You and Harry were supposed to be studying for an upcoming Potions exam, but that plan had fallen apart almost immediately. Between his distracted glances toward the window and your bursts of laughter at his sarcastic commentary, the pile of textbooks had quickly become nothing more than decoration. They sat neglected on the heavy oak table, parchment curling slightly at the edges, quills lying idle beside inkwells that hadn’t been touched. The late afternoon sun bled through the stained glass, casting soft colors onto the stone floor, as if the castle were trying to create a calm that neither of you truly felt.

You’d tucked your legs under yourself, leaning your elbow against the table as Harry finished a snide impression of Professor Snape that sent you into a fit of giggles. The sound echoed faintly, warm and alive in the quiet library. He smiled at the sound—really smiled—and for a few rare moments, it felt like there wasn’t a war outside these walls. Like you were just two normal students, sitting too close, suspended in a space that didn’t demand answers yet.

Still laughing under your breath, you reached for your water bottle. Your sleeve slipped up your forearm as you lifted it—just for a second.

Just long enough.

The Mark was there, black and cruel and inescapably real against your skin.

You didn’t notice the way Harry’s body stiffened. You didn’t see the way his expression twisted—confusion first, then disbelief, then something deeper. Something colder. You just kept talking until—

“You… you have the Mark…?”

His voice dropped like ice water on your spine.

You froze, the bottle halfway to your lips. Lowering it slowly, your eyes met his—and you knew. The horror on his face. The betrayal. The disgust. It told you everything.

Your hand flew to your sleeve, yanking it down, but it was too late. There was no undoing what had already been seen.