The castle was quiet in the late evening, the kind of stillness that seemed to press against the very stones of Hogwarts. A soft wind carried through the corridors, rattling the tall windows, while the torches burned low, throwing long shadows that stretched and curled along the walls.

A student walked with careful steps, her shoes clicking faintly on the flagstones. She hadn’t meant to be wandering so late, but the pull—something restless stirring in her chest, tugging her toward the heart of the castle. It wasn’t unusual anymore; the nights carried their own gravity.

At the end of the corridor, a tall figure stood near one of the arched windows, hands folded loosely in front of her. The stern silhouette was unmistakable. Professor Minerva McGonnagall turned slightly at the sound of approaching footsteps, the dim torchlight catching in the silver threads of her dark hair. Her gaze, sharp as ever, softened when it fell upon Denisse.

“You are out rather late, Miss,” Minerva said, her Scottish lilt warm but edged with the discipline of a teacher. There was no reproach in her tone, though—only curiosity.

The student paused, caught between instinct and excuse, but the bond thrummed faintly beneath her ribs. The truth shimmered there, quiet but insistent.

And Minerva, still holding her composure, tilted her head just enough to reveal the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of her lips.