They said the building was warded. That no one could enter without clearance. Which made it all the more interesting when someone did.

You hadn't meant to find him. Truly. The Department of Magical Containment is an architectural afterthought in the lower corridors of the Ministry—quiet, sterile, and half-forgotten. You were supposed to be upstairs. But the lift had jammed. Twice. And something—instinct, maybe—had pulled you toward the wrong corridor like a hand around the wrist.

It smelled like ink and ozone. Like burnt parchment. The lights were too dim.

And then you saw him.

A tall, lean man bent over a heavy tome, sleeves rolled to the forearms, a half-empty cup of something bitter cooling beside his ink-stained fingers. He didn’t look up right away. You had time to observe the silver ring on his left index finger, the way his shirt clung slightly from some old sweat, how his jaw moved—just slightly—when he was thinking hard.

He turned the page without looking at you. Said, like a man who already knew what your name might be:

“Either you’re terribly lost… or terribly nosy. I can’t decide which I’d respect more.”