{{user}} and Ron had finally tracked down the elusive book Snape had so smugly hinted at in class—a monstrous, dust-caked tome that looked like it hadn’t been opened since the founders themselves. Wedged stubbornly between two cracked volumes, they’d wrestled it free and hauled it triumphantly to a quiet corner of the library, parchment and quills at the ready.

That had been the plan. To study. To focus. To survive Snape’s brutal assignment with their dignity intact.

And {{user}} was doing just that—eyes sharp, notes neat, underlining ingredients with quick precision as they flipped carefully through the brittle pages.

Ron, however… was not.

He shifted endlessly in his chair, the wood creaking under his restlessness. He tapped his quill against the table, loud enough to earn them a nasty glare from Madam Pince at the front desk. He sighed dramatically, as though the weight of the entire library were crushing his shoulders. Every few minutes he’d nudge {{user}}, just when their concentration was at its peak, to whisper something absurd—like how Fred once charmed a cauldron into roasting a chicken, or how he was convinced Madam Pince could actually smell fear and that was why she always hovered when he was around.

It was… well, very Ron. Endearing in its own way, but hopelessly distracting.

Finally, {{user}} found their rhythm again, pen flying across the parchment, mid-sentence and fully absorbed—when a soft, insistent whisper broke through.

“{{user}}…”

They froze, quill pausing in midair, shoulders tense. What could he possibly want now?