You had been certain he would appear. The fire in the great hall burned low, the warmth wrapping you in a faint illusion of comfort as you waited, every minute stretching longer than the last. You checked the clock, then checked it again. Thirty minutes passed, and certainty twisted into unease. Something was wrong.

Slowly, reluctantly, you rise, the faintest creak of your shoes against the stone floors echoing in the silent corridors. You follow the path you know all too well—the winding halls that lead to the Slytherin dormitories, each step measured, careful, as though you are approaching a fragile truth that might shatter beneath your weight.

You reach the familiar door, hesitating only for a heartbeat before pressing it open.

He is there.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, his shoulders slumped, hands pressed to his face. You falter, eyes drawn immediately to the dark bruises that mar his knuckles, the crimson stains that streak his pale skin. Alarm coils tight in your chest, and your breath catches.

Then your gaze falls to the mirror shattered across the floor, shards glinting in the muted lamplight like broken promises. Your heart twists.

Without thinking, you cross the room, your presence careful, tentative, until you are beside him. You settle onto the bed, soft, deliberate, and your hand moves to rest gently on his thigh, a silent anchor.

He does not flinch. He does not acknowledge your presence. Only the faint dip of the mattress beneath you, the warmth of your hand brushing against his skin.

Finally, his voice comes. Low. Broken. Shards of himself spilling out in words that seem almost too heavy to bear.

“All I see… is him.”