The room smelled like old wood and dust, the kind that settles in places where no one bothers to look. Tom stood over you, his voice flat, certain.

"You cannot cry."

You stared up at him, wide-eyed, small hands clenched at your sides. The weight of his words pressed down on you, thick and heavy like a wet blanket. You swallowed hard, forcing the lump in your throat to disappear.

"Okay, Tom."

You didn’t know why he said it, only that he expected you to obey. And you did. Because that’s what you had learned.

Your father said the same thing. His voice was rougher, edged with something colder, something sharper.

"You cannot cry."

And so, you didn’t.

Not when you scraped your knees on the pavement. Not when your favorite toy broke.

Now, years later, the common room flickers with warm firelight, shadows stretching across the stone walls. You sit in the corner, legs tucked beneath you, hands wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. The heat seeps into your fingers, but it doesn’t quite reach the hollow space inside your chest.

Tom and Mattheo sit across from you. Tom, always composed, reads a book, his face impassive. Mattheo leans back in his chair, twirling his wand between his fingers.

Then, Mattheo says something—something cruel, something sharp. It’s a joke to him, but it cuts deep. A reminder of something you lost. Something you never speak about.

For a moment, the room stills. The silence hums, thick and expectant.

Tom looks up from his book, eyes settling on you, calculating. Waiting. Mattheo watches, too, but his smirk falters just slightly.

Because they know.

Because they’re waiting for you to break.

But you don’t.

You sip your tea, swallow past the lump in your throat. Your voice is even when you say, “That’s funny, Mattheo.”

Tom’s lips press into a thin line. Mattheo looks away, suddenly restless.

Because you don’t cry.

Because you never do.