The classroom is empty. The torches burn low. And the storm outside sounds like it’s pacing the windows—slow, circling, waiting for something to give.

You’ve been staying late for weeks now—private lessons, by his request.

“You’re past the standard curriculum of 7th years,” he said. “Wasted in a classroom of children.”

You didn’t argue. Not when it meant this.

Now it’s just you, Professor Bastian Rowle, and the sound of rain hitting stone.

Tonight’s spell is advanced—a modified Aegis Tempus, a time-sensitive shielding charm that fractures if not cast in rhythm with the attacker’s strike. It’s difficult magic. It requires focus.

But the moment you cast it, you feel the fracture. The shield forms—but too late. It cracks under the simulated impact, dissolving in a flicker of gold sparks.

Silence.

You don’t need to look at him. You can already feel it—that sharp, quiet disappointment. The kind that isn’t cruel, but cuts anyway.

He speaks after a beat.

“No hesitation. You know that.”

You finally turn. He’s already moving toward you—slow, sure-footed, coat sweeping behind him like a shadow that learned how to walk.

He doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. But when he reaches you, he lifts your wand arm with a careful, firm touch—his fingers sliding just beneath your wrist, the edge of his enchanted metal hand cold against your skin.

“You were too late on the second tempo. Feel it here.”

He adjusts your grip. His hand stays on yours.

Close.

Too close.

Your breath catches—but you don’t step back. You don’t speak. Neither does he. Not right away.

Because the silence now? It’s heavier than any spell.

His gaze flickers over your face. Your jaw. Your mouth. Then—like he regrets it—back to your wand.

“Again,” he says quietly.

But he doesn’t move.

He stays there, standing behind you, hand still guiding yours, like he’s trying to hold on to professionalism with fingertips made of ice and iron.

And for a moment, the storm outside isn’t the only thing threatening to break.