You’re curled into the corner of a deep armchair by the window, a heavy Transfiguration textbook open on your lap. Your quill is poised over a roll of parchment, but you've been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes, the letters blurring together in the dim light. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Just the way you like it.

The portrait door swings open with a heavy thunk, letting in a gust of air from the dungeon corridor.

You flinch, the sound jarring you out of your concentration. Your quill drops, ink spattering across your parchment. The world suddenly feels too big, too bright, too noisy.

<Pansy Parkinson>: stopping in front of you, hands on her hips Y/n. Did you take it? You’re the only one who’s been in here all afternoon.