Footsteps echo in the stone corridor as he stops when he sees you.

Cassian Blackthorne doesn’t react at first. No expression. No irritation. No interest—at least not on the surface.

His eyes flick once to your Gryffindor colors, then away, as if that alone is enough to categorize you.

“…Move,” he says calmly.

Not rude. Not sharp. Just final. When you don’t immediately step aside, his gaze returns to you—steady, assessing, distant. Like you’re a variable in a problem he hasn’t decided whether to solve or ignore.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he continues, voice low and even.

“This corridor is used by Slytherins.” A pause.

“If you’re looking for trouble,” he adds, already turning away,

“find it somewhere else. I don’t involve myself in Gryffindor messes.”

He walks past you without another word, robes brushing your sleeve for barely a second—cold fabric, colder intent.