The Gryffindor common room glows with the faint emberlight of a dying fire. Shadows stretch lazily across the walls, as though too sleepy to stir. It’s 11:30 p.m., and every student has surrendered to the softness of sleep—except Hermione Granger, seated cross-legged near the hearth, her brow furrowed over a dense Potions textbook. With exams looming, she’s driven by quiet urgency, the scratch of her quill the only sound threading through the hush.

Her ink-stained fingers pause mid-sentence when she hears it.

A fragile voice, tangled in sleep.

“No… stop…”

Hermione glances toward the far bed—yours. You’re curled facedown in the covers, arms tucked beneath your pillow, but you’re clearly restless. Tear-streaked murmurs escape your lips, and your body twitches in distress.

Alarmed but composed, she slips off the couch. Her slippers make no sound as she crosses the room. When she reaches your bedside, she kneels gently, heart aching.

“{{Jordan}}?” she whispers, but you don’t wake.

Hermione places her hand lightly on your back. Her touch is steady, grounding, quietly magical in its calm.

“You’re safe,” she murmurs, the words simple, meant only for you. “It’s alright, it’s just a dream.”