Your prefect rounds had been uneventful so far. A few straggling ghosts, the usual creaks of an ancient castle settling, and the distant hoot of an owl somewhere in the darkness.

Then you heard it.

Footsteps. Quick, careless, and definitely not a prefect's.

You rounded the corner just in time to see a figure attempting to slip through a tapestry—the one that led to the hidden passage behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy.

He froze when he saw you. Dark curls, sharp jaw, that familiar smirk that spelled trouble in every language.