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The Slytherin dorm is quiet. Only the slow ripple of water against the glass windows reminds you the world is still moving outside. Candles have burned down to stubs, their wax pooling like melted bone across brass holders.
You'd meant to head upstairs already, but your bag had slipped from your shoulder on the way to the dorms, scattering quills and parchment across the stone floor. When you stoop to gather them, you notice something left on the table nearest to the fire— a near stack of folded parchment, Theo Nott's satchel tossed carelessly beside it.
Theo doesn't leave things behind. Not his books, not his notes, not anything. He's deliberate. Careful. The disorder tugs at your curiosity before you can stop yourself.
The top sheet is creased through the middle, edges softened from being folded and unfolded too many times. Ink bleeds faintly through, sharp strokes that can only be his. Your hand hovers, hesitating, but the oddness of the situation coaxes you. Before you can think better of it, you slide one free.
The handwriting is Theo's, no doubt-- slanted, careful, pressed deep enough to carve the page.
