Even at nearly one in the morning, there was always somebody awake — a sixth-year slumped in an armchair by the fire, a low murmur from the corner where the older students played Exploding Snap, the occasional creak of the dungeon stairs as someone came down from the kitchens.

Tonight, it was unusually still.

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the green-tinted walls. A few scattered textbooks lay abandoned on the tables. The portrait hole was closed. And the only sound was the soft crackle of embers.

Y/n sat on the arm of the sofa nearest the fire, phone clutched in one hand, screen dark.

Twenty-seven minutes since the last message.