The night had been long and merciless, and though he hadn’t intended to fall asleep, exhaustion had claimed him in the quiet of his dorm. His head was tilted back against the chair, his wand still gripped loosely in his hand. The tension of the day lingered in his body, but sleep had softened his sharp features, his messy hair falling across his forehead in disarray—a rare and unguarded moment for him.

He didn’t stir at the knock on the door, too deep in the haze of his unintended slumber. But when the door creaked open and soft footsteps approached, his senses stirred. Someone was in the room. He stayed still, his instincts warring with the drowsiness that clung to him, until he felt the faint tug of fabric brushing against him.

His eyes flew open, sharp and alert, his grip on his wand tightening instinctively. You stood there, startled, a blanket in your hands and guilt written plainly across your face. His tired gaze softened despite himself as recognition set in. It was you.

For a moment, he simply stared at you, taking in the way you stand there frozen, caught red-handed. His irritation at being woken faded almost instantly, replaced with something far less severe. But he wasn’t about to let you off so easily, not without a sharp remark to mask the unexpected warmth in his chest.

“It’s about to sunrise. What the hell do you want?”

He set his wand on the desk with a soft clink, running a hand through his disheveled hair to compose himself. The way your eyes lingered on him didn’t escape his notice, and though he didn’t mention it, the faintest hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. He wasn’t angry—far from it—but he wouldn’t let you see just how much he didn’t mind your intrusion.