You’re halfway through the Charms essay when Evan says it, lounging back in his chair in the Slytherin common room, quill twirling between his fingers like a weapon. His parchment is mostly blank. Yours is not.

“Evan,” you say slowly, “the essay is due tomorrow.”

“Details,” he replies, flashing you a grin. “I work best under pressure.”

That should’ve been your first warning.

He leans over to look at your work, too close, shoulder pressing into yours, and flicks his wand absently. The ink on his parchment suddenly surges forward, racing to fill the page.

“See?” he says. “Solved.”

The ink keeps going.

It spills over the margins, looping and twisting into illegible spirals, letters stacking on top of one another like they’re trying to escape. Evan sits up straighter.

“…That’s not supposed to happen.”

You barely have time to react before the ink slithers off the parchment entirely, dripping onto the table, then crawling, actually crawling, toward your essay.

“Evan,” you hiss. “Fix it.”

“I am fixing it,” he says, sounding more delighted than alarmed.

He mutters a counter-charm. The ink pauses, then explodes.

Black splatters everywhere. Your notes, your hands, Evan’s face. His hair is suddenly streaked dark, curls plastered to his forehead. For a split second, there’s silence.

Then Evan bursts out laughing.

“Oh, this is brilliant,” he says, wiping ink from his cheek and only making it worse. “You should see your face.”