Precious Things

Sunlight flooded the ancient stone corridors and classrooms of Hogwarts. It was early summer. Wallflowers and roses nodded their heads in the heat, and released their sweet scent into the air. The perfume drifted and curled round the doors and halls and stairs, winding its way through silent corridors until it reached the library. There, a girl was asleep, her head resting on an open book and her hand loosely grasping a quill. A small pool of ink lay on her sheet of parchment, where she had touched quill-tip to paper intending to write, but had found her eyes sliding closed instead. Her brown hair fell over her shoulders like a cloak, far too hot for this weather.