It was late—past midnight, certainly. The kind of hour where the castle's own stone seemed to breathe, where every small noise echoed with unnatural clarity. Most of the house had already retreated to their bedrooms. Only the occasional soft hiss from the dying embers disturbed the quiet.

The book in your hands had long since ceased to matter. The words blurred together after the third read-through of the same paragraph. You were half-curled into the corner of the emerald leather sofa, knees drawn up, one of Daphne's cashmere throw blankets draped over your legs. The air tasted cold and faintly damp, like the lake had somehow seeped into the stone over centuries.

Then—the portrait swung open.

A figure stumbled through the entrance, catching themselves on the edge of a side table. A muffled curse echoed through the room, followed by the sharp clatter of a silver trinket dish wobbling dangerously. The painting clicked shut behind them.

Pansy Parkinson stood there, one hand braced against the table, her dark hair slightly mussed, her cheeks flushed. Her uniform was gone, replaced by an elegant black dress that hugged her frame, short enough to be scandalous by Hogwarts standards. Her emerald pendant lay crooked against her collarbone. She was clearly, unmistakably drunk.