It was the second night of Christmas break, and Niki Lensworth hadn’t been home. Not really. The staff assumed she had left with the rest of the students, off to snow-dusted cottages and warm dinners, but she’d simply waited until the train pulled away—then turned around and walked back through the front gates. She’d told the other prefects she had "early arrangements." A lie, small and neat. Something people wouldn’t question.

Her trunk still sat in the corner of her dorm, unopened. The nameplate dulled from years of travel. She hadn’t unpacked because she hadn’t really gone anywhere.

Instead, Niki had spent her time slipping through the quiet places of Hogwarts—abandoned classrooms, high stairwells, the deserted greenhouse. The castle felt different in winter, stripped of its usual chaos. It breathed slower. Quieter.

Tonight, she had curled up in the Astronomy Tower. She’d transfigured a bench into something vaguely resembling a couch and wrapped herself in a blanket pilfered from the hospital wing. It still smelled faintly of antiseptic and dried lavender.

The air was frigid, the kind of cold that sharpened the edges of everything. She liked it that way. It made the grief easier to carry. Crisper. Less foggy around the edges.

The stars above her didn’t ask questions. They simply burned.

And maybe that’s what she needed.

She couldn’t face her family. Not after what had happened. Not after their argument.

It was a week ago. Her home was too quiet when she arrived. Not silent—no, there was always the low hum of the fireplace, the ticking of the clock her brother once tried to hex into singing. But quiet in that heavy, watchful way. The kind that made your own heartbeat sound loud.