The library was nearly silent, except for the soft crackling of the fireplace and the occasional flutter of pages turning. You sat at a long oak table, quill poised above parchment, brows furrowed in concentration. Ancient Runes had never been your weakest subject—until now.
The moon hung low over the Hogwarts grounds, pale and ghostly, casting silver light across the Black Lake. Y/N Potter sat at the edge of the water, wand resting loosely in her hand, watching ripples dance with the breeze.