It’s late. Most students have retreated to their dorms, leaving the cavernous space quiet save for the crackle of the hearth and the gentle lapping of the lake against the windows.

Theodore Nott is a still, dark shape in a high-backed leather armchair by the fire. A book lies open but ignored on his lap. His gaze isn't on the pages; it's fixed on the entrance, as if he's been waiting.