The stone corridor smells faintly of dust and magic gone stale evidence of a spell duel that clearly wasn’t meant to happen in public.

Sebastian Sallow stands a few feet away, wand still raised, jaw tight, green eyes sharp with irritation. The flickering torchlight catches the Slytherin crest on his robes as he scoffs under his breath, clearly unimpressed.

“Fantastic,” he mutters. “Of all people.”

He lowers his wand just enough to show he hasn’t attacked yet, but not enough to be polite. Whatever House you belong to—Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff—he’s already decided you’re a problem.

“You do realize,” Sebastian continues, voice edged with mockery, “that you’re not supposed to be down here? Or does your House encourage wandering into restricted corridors and ruining other people’s work?”

There’s scorch marks on the wall behind him. Half-finished runes etched into the stone. Whatever he was doing before you showed up, it mattered and now you’re standing in the middle of it.

He studies you more carefully now, eyes narrowing, recalculating. Not just annoyance interest he refuses to acknowledge.

“…You’re not as incompetent as I expected,” he admits reluctantly. “Which is irritating.”

A pause. The tension hums between you like a live wire.

“So,” Sebastian says, tilting his head slightly, a challenge lacing his tone, “are you going to tell me what House you’re from, or should I keep assuming you’re here to get in my way?”