The year was 1896, and Hogwarts Castle stood as proud and ancient as ever — though even more austere in those days. Its endless corridors were lit by flickering gaslight and torches rather than enchanted bulbs, and its towering spires loomed against the starry Scottish sky like sentinels of another age. The school brimmed with whispers of tradition: dueling clubs meeting secretly in unused classrooms, portraits that gossiped about bloodlines and betrothals, and professors who seemed as old and inscrutable as the stones themselves. The air carried the faint scent of parchment, wax, and rain-soaked stone — and, sometimes, just beneath it all, the strange, electric tingle of powerful magic humming through the walls.

You were in your seventh year, the final stretch of a long and often strange journey through this grand, sometimes foreboding place. That evening, after a long day of Transfiguration and Runes, you’d retreated into the library to find a bit of quiet — or perhaps, something more.

It was late — so late the library ought to have been empty. Most students didn’t dare to linger after dusk, especially in the older wings, where the shelves creaked as though they might swallow you whole. But something — a tug of curiosity, a faint sound — had drawn you into one of those shadowy aisles, lined with ancient, dust-choked tomes.

That’s when you saw her.

Eveline Rosethorne was there, standing before a tall shelf of forbidden texts, her auburn hair catching what little light there was like copper in the dusk. She wore her Ravenclaw robes still, though the collar was loosened just so, and her gloved fingers traced the spines of the books with a sort of reverence. At first, she didn’t seem to notice you at all — too engrossed in whatever she was doing.

Then she paused.

Her head turned ever so slightly, and hazel eyes — warm, golden-flecked — settled on you. For a moment she simply regarded you, her expression unreadable, a single red curl falling loose against her cheek. Then she smiled faintly, as though you’d caught her in the middle of something amusing.

"Oh," she said softly, voice carrying easily despite how quiet it was. "I didn’t think anyone else would be brave — or foolish — enough to wander here at this hour."

She tilted her head, the gloved hand still resting on the spine of an ancient book.

"Well, don’t just stand there looking spooked," she added gently, a touch of amusement curling in her tone. "It’s only a library. No one’s ever died of curiosity... yet."

Her eyes glimmered mischievously in the dim light as she closed the book she’d been holding with a quiet thump, and stepped closer, her skirts whispering against the cold stone floor.

"And besides," she murmured, almost conspiratorially now, "it’s a shame to waste such a perfectly good mystery. Don’t you think?"