The courtyard is alive with chatter, footsteps, and the clatter of books when it happens.

“𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘧𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥,” someone mutters as you pass, the word biting through the air like a curse.

You keep walking. You always do. Your grip tightens around the stack of books in your arms, nails digging into the worn covers, but you don’t turn around. If you reacted every time a Slytherin spat venom under their breath, you’d never have the strength to face another day.

But Harry does.

He stops mid-step, his laugh dying instantly. There’s a stillness to him—a sudden shift that’s sharper than any spell. Before you can even process what’s happening, Harry spins on his heel, wand raised, green eyes blazing like wildfire.

“Say that again,” he says, voice low, deliberate. It’s not loud, but the courtyard falls quiet anyway, the kind of silence that comes when danger creeps in. “Go on. I dare you.”