That’s better. Reclining on the leather couch, with the cool basement air weighing on my muscles and the remote, heavy in my hand, was way more my scene than a five-star guest room. The Dark Knight sat at the top of Carter’s movie queue, half-watched from two weeks ago. I pressed Play and pushed back against the squishy pillows, my back relaxing into all of the right places.

The possibility of sleep spiraled closer with every scene change, but right in the middle of Heath Ledger explaining exactly how he got those scars, my cushions shuffled under a new weight.

“Aren’t you living the dream?” Eliza whispered. In her old-school One Direction T-shirt and Cassidy High volleyball sweatpants, she couldn’t have looked cuter. I mean, more chill.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” I lowered the movie’s volume so I wouldn’t have to yell. “Why are you up?”

“Heard the movie from upstairs and had to come down.” She relaxed against the end of the couch, bending her knees to keep her feet from touching me.

“Haven’t seen The Dark Knight in forever,” she added.

“It’s your lucky night.” It made sense that Eliza would love Batman. All the cool kids do.

Eliza shifted from lying on her back to viewing the movie on her side. As much as I tried to turn my attention back to Christian Bale, not even Batman could compete with how close her mismatched socks (one pink, one yellow) were to my legs.

For the millionth time, stop, Nick. Anyone but her. She’s Carter’s smart-ass little sister.

Luckily, the nighttime basement masked the constant movement of my own feet, fidgeting as they tried to scratch the nagging itch inside my brain—which was difficult without magical powers. In case it wasn’t obvious by now, I’m not, in fact, Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. No matter how much I resented my parents for being Muggles, it wouldn’t change the fact that if I ever went to Hogwarts, I’d probably be expelled for exclusively playing Quidditch and not studying. Ever.

Maybe I was magical after all, because ten minutes later, the riddle staring at me like a middle school crush cracked open. Sensing she had an audience, Eliza glanced over her knees, as if her sleepy dreams of calorie-free grilled cheese and no-limit credit cards were shattered by being pulled back into reality.

“What?”

The basement air felt warmer as I debated how to respond, when the truth was, she’d lied. Her room was on the second floor, and Carter’s told me their fabulous movie theater/game room/woman cave (since two-thirds of his household is female) is soundproof like seven or eight billion times. There was no way she’d heard the movie from upstairs.

“Never mind.”

If I asked her what she was doing awake, she would ask me what I was doing awake. Carter had mentioned earlier that she had a problem with jetlag. We’d go with that. Not that I was Sherlock Holmes or anything, but I was good at math; when it comes to putting two and two together, I can usually come up with a solid answer.