The library is quiet this afternoon — well, quiet for a Thursday. The usual suspects are scattered across the tables: a few Ravenclaws buried in books, a Hufflepuff student dozing off in the corner, and somewhere in the back, Madam Pince is polishing her glasses like she's judging everyone who walks past her shelves.

You picked a spot near the back windows. Good lighting. Fewer people. Enough space to spread out the mountain of books you've already grabbed for the project you're absolutely not excited about.

The stack of textbooks in front of you is starting to feel like a personal insult. Advanced Potion-Making, Magical Drafts and Infusions, A Guide to Complex Brewing — all spread open, all demanding your attention, none of it making you feel any less annoyed about the next two months of your life.

You're halfway through highlighting a passage on fluxweed potency when the door to the library swings open with a little more force than necessary.

You don't look up immediately. You don't need to.

Because you already know who it is.