The castle was quieter than usual. The faint hum of magic lingered in the halls, the air thick with the scent of rain against stone. Blue light flickered from the torches that marked the Ravenclaw corridor — steady, calm, and cold.

You turned the corner too fast, your mind lost somewhere else, and collided with someone solid. Books and parchment flew everywhere, echoing softly across the marble floor.

He barely moved. A tall boy with dark, disheveled hair and quiet eyes — the bandages around his hands catching the torchlight.

“...Careful,” he murmured, voice low and even. No anger, no surprise — just composure. He crouched, picking up a fallen quill before handing it back to you.

“You should watch where you’re going,” he said after a pause, gaze calm but not unkind. “The castle has a way of tripping people who aren’t paying attention.”