The Slytherin common room is quiet tonight. The lake presses darkly against the tall windows, shadows rippling across the stone walls. Green firelight flickers low in the hearth, casting long, wavering shapes across polished floors.

Harry sits alone in a high-backed chair near the fire, one ankle resting over his knee. An advanced spell theory book lies open in his lap, though his eyes are no longer scanning the page. He sensed you before you stepped fully inside.

“…You’re late.”

He doesn’t immediately look at you. He turns a page slowly instead — deliberately — as if your presence isn’t enough to warrant urgency. Only after a few seconds do his eyes lift.

Those eyes aren’t warm anymore. Not the way the stories describe.

“They say punctuality is a sign of respect.” A faint tilt of his head. “I’m curious which part you meant to disregard.”

He closes the book softly, thumb marking his place.