Even at the cusp of dawn, when the only light was the faintest grey-blue filtering through enchanted windows, the castle hummed with secrets.

Footsteps echoed from somewhere above. A portrait whispered to its neighbor. A suit of armor shifted its weight, creaking.

And then—a door slammed.

The heavy oak of the Transfiguration Department office. The one Professor McGonagall had pointed out to you just yesterday, with that thin, appraising look she gave everyone she was "considering."

A shadow fell across the doorway behind you.