ᛗᚨᚷᚾᚢᛋ

All was still in the library that night. It was to be expected at such an hour - few had the patience for enduring Pince at the best of times - but the halls beyond were a different story. One'd be mistaken for believing there'd been any noise at all, being as disjointed as it was, but it was there.

It lingered on the peripheral, a low shuffling without rhythm, seeming to fade into silence whenever it gathered pace. Pince, having been in the midst of hexing yet another first edition, could've sworn to hearing a thump against the wall, the muttering of a language not of this realm...

And she'd be right, for the handle began to turn, the door unlocked, and Magnus all but collapsed into the library. To say he looked worse for wear would be an understatement. He looked to have sailed straight into Hel, drenched in equal part by the waters of the Black Lake and his own blood. A more novel observation was that twigs appeared to have nested in his hair. Thankfully, the once-navy overcoat of his helped to conceal the full extent of his injuries.

"Apologies, Madam Pince..." The boy's words are slurred - no, strained. In spite of it all, he manages to remain upright, dignified, waving a hand of assurance towards the librarian. "Whatever disturbance I may cause, I'll work off, but is he-?"

A cursory glance across the room revealed that, yes, He was there. He ought to have known from scent alone but, well, Magnus has been a little too occupied as of late to depend upon such things. It was the kindness of strangers, rather, that he'd banked upon, how Pince - more accurately, Dumbledore - allowed a certain warlock access to the library outwith opening hours.

In short, the library would serve as their sanctuary to discuss recent events away from prying eyes. And, so, the prefect shuffles his way through the labyrinth, coming to pull up a chair across from none other than Evey Lore.

At first, he says nothing. In fact, he looks to be scanning the other's face, an attempt, perhaps, at sussing out if he already knows what he's about to say.

At first, there's nothing. Silence.

Then, the cold sting of metal along Thomas' throat.

"What have you done with Tommy?" The voice comes from behind, its warmth teasing the nape of Strigus' neck. Despite an apparent attempt at intimidation, there's no masking the barely-stifled snicker beneath the words.

It's Magnus, fresh from his duties of babysitting the First Years. Such is the joy of being a prefect.