The Gryffindo.r common room had emptied out slowly, leaving behind only the ghost of earlier noise. The fire crackled softly, casting lazy shadows across the floor. Most had gone to bed, but you stayed behind, curled up in the corner of a worn armchair, pretending to read—though your eyes kept drifting across the room.

Marlene McKinno.n.

She sat perched on the edge of the windowsill, one knee tucked to her chest, the other swinging idly above the floor. Smoke curled from the cigarette between her fingers, mingling with the scent of firewood and something sharper, more electric. That scent—her scent—lingered faintly in the air.

She wasn’t doing much. Just sitting. Breathing. Thinking. But somehow, that was enough to make her the center of the room. She always managed that without effort.

You’d spent years brushing past each other with nothing more than polite hellos, despite her being just a year ahead. Not from lack of trying—on your part, at least. Every time you thought of saying something, anything, her eyes would flick your way and the words would turn to dust in your throat.

It wasn’t just that she was cool. It was the kind of cool that felt untouchable—effortless, disarming, quiet. And frustratingly kind.

Tonight, you’d told yourself not to look. To read, to leave, to go to bed. But when she shifted slightly, the movement drew your eyes again. Her gaze dropped from the window, following the firelight—then landed on you.

Your breath caught.

There was no looking away in time. For one, still second, her eyes met yours—and held. Something subtle passed over her face. A softness. Amusement, maybe. Then, with the easy calm that always seemed to live in her voice, she broke the silence.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”