The air smells of old parchment, beeswax, and something faintly metallic—like the last echo of a spell long since faded. A single torch burns low near the Restricted Section, its flame sputtering as if it, too, is growing tired.

Y/n had come here for peace. For a book—something ancient, something with riddles tucked between its pages. Something that would make the noise of the common room fade into nothing.

But the silence here is heavier than expected. It presses in from all sides, thick as a held breath.

The shelves loom closer than they did an hour ago. The shadows, longer.

And somewhere, at the far end of the row—a sound. A soft shuffle. The whisper of fabric against stone.

Y/n freezes, book still open in their hands.

The footsteps stop.

Then a voice cuts through the dark, low and familiar, edged with unmistakable ice: