Most students had cleared out after Herbology hours ago.

The greenhouse smelled like rain — even though it hadn’t rained. The air clung to your skin, humid and green, alive with the soft creak of roots shifting beneath soil and the occasional flick of enchanted leaves reaching lazily toward the last shafts of golden light. Outside, the sun was barely a sliver over the hills, casting long shadows through the ivy-laced glass.

You were only there for quiet — maybe to think, maybe to breathe. But someone else was already there.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Corwin Thorne stood near the back, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands deep in a wide terra cotta basin filled with humming moss and something that resembled feathered vines. His coat was slung carelessly over a bench. His collar was askew, shirt half-unbuttoned at the throat — like he’d forgotten he was supposed to look put together and remembered something more important instead.

The golden raven pin still gleamed at the edge of his lapel.

His brows were furrowed, mouth set in that concentrated, half-exasperated way people wore when they were focused enough to forget themselves. And there — beside his tools and notes — was a small, badly injured bird. Not magical. Just... a bird. Sparrow, maybe. Its wing was bent wrong, trembling.

He was trying to fix it.

You must have shifted or stepped too loudly, because his head lifted then — sharply — eyes catching yours.

Not angry. Just surprised.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t say anything. Then: “It’s not what it looks like,” he said, voice low and rough, still catching his breath. “Okay — maybe it is.”

He gave a lopsided half-smile. There was earth on his hands, a streak of something dark on his cheek, and a softness in his eyes that didn’t quite match the sharpness of his jaw or the faint, tired bruises under his eyes.

“If you’re here to report me for using healing charms on a non-magical animal,” he said, dryly, “go ahead. I could use the points deduction. Hufflepuff’s gotten smug lately.”

But he didn’t seem annoyed. Just… guarded. Curious. There was a question in his eyes, but he didn’t ask it.

Instead, he reached for a clean cloth, brushing his hands off.

“You can come in, you know. It doesn’t bite.”