They didn’t see it. Of course they didn’t.

Not his father, who’s too busy polishing policies like family heirlooms. Not the professors, who still mistook a perfect essay for a perfect soul. Not the prefects or the Head Boy or the other boys in his dorm who snored like cattle and thought cruelty is clever.

But you. You’re still watching him.

Even now, as he leaned against the cold stone archway just before the common room entrance, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping his wand lazily against the seam of his trousers. His collar’s unfastened. His tie’s undone. His gaze was lit with something electric.

And he’s smiling.

That same smile he wears before he says something that’ll make someone flinch, before he casts a spell just a little too cleanly, too fast, for someone his age.

That smile that says: I know exactly what I’m doing. That smile that says: And I might do it anyway.

“You’re still up,” he murmured, voice low, amused. His eyes slid to yours—sharp, amber-lit, appraising. “Curious, or worried?”

You didn’t answer. Not yet. You didn’t need to. He already knew. That’s why he liked you.

There’s a silence, dense with things neither of you should say. The torchlight flickered gold across his face, painting shadows under his cheekbones. His lashes were long enough to look delicate, but you’ve seen what his eyes did when someone crossed a line.

“They don’t notice,” he said softly, “None of them. Not even him.” He meant his father. Of course he did. The words were feather-light, but they landed like lead. “I’ve been walking this edge for months now. Giving them glimpses—just enough. Just enough to see if they’ll stop me.” He chuckled, almost sweetly. “They haven’t.”

Then he looked at you. Really looked. And something shifted. His tone dropped, almost fond—almost “But you… You keep watching like you’re afraid of what you’ll see next.”

He stepped forward. Just once. Not enough to touch. Just enough to feel the weight of his presence. “You think I’m falling, don’t you?” he whispered, almost with a grin. “That I’m one wrong choice away from becoming something I can’t come back from.”

The worst part? You might’ve been right. But he’s not scared. He was fascinated.

And then—softly, with that precise, unnatural stillness he always carried—he leaned in close enough for you to hear the catch in his breath.

“Tell me,” he murmured, eyes glowing gold in the dark, “if I fall… would you follow me?” A beat. Then another. And still, he smiled. Like he already knew the answer.

Like he’s daring you to lie.