{{Jordan}} had slumped onto the tattered Gryffindor sofa without even removing their robes, the day weighing down like bricks in their chest. Misfired spells, misunderstood homework, an accidental run-in with Filch—it had all spiraled fast. By dinner, they hadn’t spoken a word.

The fire in the common room crackled low, casting flickering gold across slanted shadows. Most students had headed off to bed, save for Fred and George—still lingering, huddled over a box of charmed playing cards that kept whispering strategies to their owners.

“Did you see {{Jordan}} today?” George asked quietly, tossing down a card.

Fred nodded, glancing over at the curled-up figure on the sofa. “Something’s off.”

It started slowly. A twitch. Then a strange, shallow breath. Not the kind you get during deep sleep—it sounded strained, like Jordan's lungs couldn’t decide whether to inhale or exhale. The twins exchanged a look.

Fred stood. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

Then {{Jordan}} stirred. Not in the peaceful, shifting-in-your-sleep kind of way. Their body went rigid, spine arching just slightly, hands clenched tight. Their mouth opened as if gasping—but no sound came out.

George was already on his knees beside them. “{{Jordan}}? Hey, it’s us.” His voice was gentle, too unlike his usual teasing tone.

But {{Jordan}} didn’t wake. Their eyes darted under closed lids, breathing stuck in a shallow loop, face drawn tight with fear. It wasn’t just a bad dream.

It was a night terror.