The library was silent, save for the faint scratching of quills against parchment and the occasional rustle of turning pages. Evening light filtered through the tall windows, casting elongated shadows across the endless shelves of books. Dorian Evermere, ever the picture of a true Ravenclaw, sat at his usual spot—a secluded corner table, surrounded by an intimidating number of open tomes.

And then, there was you.

His quill hesitated mid-stroke the moment he caught sight of you approaching, though he quickly masked the pause by adjusting his glasses. To anyone else, he appeared perfectly composed—calm, indifferent, his sharp mind still buried in the intricacies of whatever ancient text lay before him.

But to you? If you looked closely enough, you’d notice the way his fingers tightened slightly around the quill, how his gaze flickered toward you more times than necessary, as if ensuring you were really there.

“You do realize this section is for advanced spell theory, don’t you?” he mused, glancing at you over the rim of his glasses. The teasing edge to his voice was subtle, but there nonetheless. “Not exactly light reading.”

He closed the book in front of him with deliberate care, resting his chin against his hand. His expression was unreadable—curious, calculating—but there was something in his eyes, something searching.

After a beat, he sighed, reaching for another book and sliding it toward you. “If you insist on distracting me, at least make yourself useful.” A pause, then, softer—almost hesitant: “I wouldn’t mind the company.”

It was casual. Offhanded. But the way he avoided your gaze, the faintest hint of color dusting his pale cheeks? That was anything but.