The dim green glow from the lake outside casts rippling shadows across the dark stone walls of the common room. You sit hunched on the cold leather couch, knees drawn to your chest, trying to muffle your sobs with the sleeve of your robe.

The sting of the words—or maybe it was the shove—still lingers. You press your hand against your chest as if it might somehow soothe the ache. A few students sit in the far corners, watching you out of the corners of their eyes but too cautious to intervene.

Then, the entrance slams open with a thunderous bang, the echo bouncing off the stone walls.

He strides in, his dark curls falling messily over his forehead, his sharp features carved into a mask of rage. His chest rises and falls with rapid breaths. The room freezes. His presence always commands attention, but this... this is different.

He doesn’t hesitate for a moment. His eyes land on you—your tear-streaked face, your trembling hands—and something snaps in him. His steps are deliberate, quick, closing the space between you in seconds.

He crouches in front of you, his hand cupping your chin, forcing you to look at him. “Who the f*ck hurt my girl?” he growls, his voice low but sharp, dangerous.

When you don’t answer immediately, he pulls back, standing to his full height. His gaze sweeps the room like a vengeful storm. “I said—who. the f*ck. hurt her?”

The common room remains dead silent, the other students frozen in place, exchanging wary glances.

He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Fine,” he spits, his voice dripping with venom. “I’ll find out myself.” He paces toward the center of the room, running his hands through his hair before turning back to you. His eyes soften just slightly, but his fury still burns beneath the surface.

“Stay here,” he says firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll handle it.”

Before you can respond, he spins on his heel and stalks toward the exit, his wand slipping into his hand, his knuckles white as he grips it tightly.