Up in the sixth-year girls' dormitory, a single wand-lit candle flickers on Y/n's bedside table. The parchment in front of her is covered in crossed-out sentences, ink-smudged, annotated in the margins until there's barely room for the actual essay. The Transfiguration notes beside it are dog-eared and coffee-stained.

Her head throbs dully behind her eyes — a familiar pressure now, settled in like an unwelcome houseguest. The tower is silent except for the soft breathing of her dormmates and the scratch of her quill.

She sets the quill down. Rubs her temples. Stares at the words swimming on the page.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then she remembers — Rosemary Abbott, in Herbology, leaning across the workbench. You know Theo Nott sells, right? My cousin buys from him. Says it's like... everything just slows down for a bit.

It's just a plant. Muggle Herbology, essentially. People have used it for centuries. For relaxation. For sleep.

Y/n reaches for her phone.