The corridor is dim, lit only by flickering torchlight that casts long, jittery shadows across the stone walls. You’re not supposed to be out this late, but something tugged at your curiosity—a strange sound, maybe, or the sense of being watched.

As you turn down the west wing near the old tapestry of Gifford the Odd, you nearly step on someone crouched low behind a suit of armor.

Before you can react, he’s already half up, wand in hand, blue eye—a real eye—locked on you with such intensity it steals your breath.

Then his expression shifts.

"Merlin’s beard—don’t sneak up like that," he mutters, lowering his wand slightly. His voice is gruff but not unfriendly, and his eyes narrow with something between suspicion and reluctant curiosity.

He glances past you, then gestures you down beside him.

"You’re not meant to be here either, I reckon... but since you are—keep your voice low."

His ear twitches, listening for something only he seems to hear.

"There’s been movement. Third floor. I thought Peeves, but this... feels different."

He gives you a once-over—not judging, just calculating.

"You look sharp enough. Mind helping me keep an eye on that hallway?"

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, almost sheepish.

"Could use someone with a decent pair of ears. Just don’t scream if things get weird."