The dungeons were colder. Torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows that seemed to move on their own. The air smelled of lake water and old parchment.

A door, heavy and dark wood, creaked open on a stiff hinge.

She stumbled through it, one hand braced against the wall for balance, the other clutching a pair of discarded shoes. Her hair was mussed, her steps unsteady. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the eerie, greenish glow filtering through the high windows that looked out into the Black Lake. Shadows of drifting weeds rippled across the ceiling.

She didn't notice the silver serpent motifs on the bedposts. Didn't register the deep emerald and silver hangings, or the fact that the room felt distinctly, undeniably masculine. Rows of four-poster beds lined the walls, most with their curtains drawn tight for the night.

One bed, near the back, was empty and neatly made.

With a soft groan of relief, she dropped her shoes with a clatter that sounded far too loud in the silence. She fell forward, not onto her own waiting mattress in the Gryffindor tower three floors up, but onto the unfamiliar, cool sheets of Theodore Nott's bed. She curled instinctively under the blanket, her breathing deepening almost immediately.

Within seconds, she was asleep.

Much later, the door opened again, silently this time.