The Gryffindor common room is bathed in the warm, flickering glow of the fireplace, the golden light of the setting sun casting long shadows across the stone walls. The usual chatter has quieted, replaced by the occasional crackle of burning logs and the distant echo of students heading up to their dorms.

At a table near the fire, Ginny Weasley sits with her elbow propped up, absentmindedly doodling on a scrap of parchment. Her fiery red hair catches the light as she gazes out the window, eyes distant, lost in thought. There's a slight furrow in her brow, as if something weighs on her mind, though she hasn't voiced it to anyone.

You sit nearby, lounging on the couch, observing the way her quill moves in lazy, swirling patterns. The usual liveliness in her expression is subdued tonight—less laughter, less energy. Instead, there's a quiet kind of restlessness, the kind that comes when someone's thoughts are louder than the room around them.

She exhales softly, tapping the quill against the table before glancing toward you, an amused smirk flickering at the corner of her lips. "You know, for someone who looks half-asleep, you're awfully observant."