The Restricted Section is quiet in a way that feels sacred.

Candles float low, their flames barely breathing, shadows clinging to the shelves like secrets that refuse to die. You and Barty sit on the cold stone floor, backs against the same bookcase, knees almost touching. Between you lies a half-open tome filled with ink that seems to shift when you aren’t looking.

It is long past curfew.

“You’ll get me expelled,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you. “You came anyway.”

You did. You always do.

You had meant only to help him translate a spell, to spend one more hour together before the world demanded you be enemies again. But the night stretches, and the warmth of his shoulder against yours becomes too heavy, too real. At some point, exhaustion wins.

You fall asleep first.

Barty notices when your breathing changes. When your head slips against his shoulder, trusting without realizing it. He freezes, afraid to move, afraid to ruin something he doesn’t deserve. Then he closes his eyes too.

The dream comes quietly.

You are older. Not in a castle, not hiding. There is a small house with crooked windows, shelves filled with books that smell like dust and sunlight. You argue about who forgot to feed the pet. You laugh in a kitchen full of morning light. There is no Dark Lord. No father. No bloodlines.

Just you and him.

When he wakes, the dream lingers like a bruise. You are still beside him, hand resting inches from his. For a moment, he pretends the dream is real. That this is his future. That he is allowed to want it.