Living with your best friend is either a blessing or a slow, elegant form of torture.

For me, it’s both.

Bella and I have shared everything since we were kids—scraped knees in pureblood gardens, stolen firewhisky from our parents’ cabinets, whispered secrets during holidays when the adults thought we were asleep. By the time we ended up at the same university, same Slytherin friend group, same dorm corridor, it felt inevitable. Like the universe never even considered separating us.

Now we share a floor with the rest of the Slytherins—Draco, Pansy, Blaise, Daphne. Cold stone walls, green banners, low ceilings. The kind of place that echoes with laughter at night and secrets at three in the morning.

Bella’s room is two doors down from mine.

I know this because I hear her laugh through the walls.

I’m sitting on my bed, book open but unread, when her voice floats down the corridor—warm, familiar, dangerous. She’s laughing at something Blaise said. I can picture it perfectly: her leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted, eyes bright.

I’ve memorized her without trying.

I hate that.