Uneventful.

Hermione stepped cautiously into the hallway, mindful of the creaky floorboards beneath her feet. The house was still steeped in darkness, the air cool with the lingering chill of the night. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around herself as she moved forward, careful not to disturb anything—or anyone.

The nearest usable bathroom was two stories down, an inconvenience she had begrudgingly accepted during her stay at Grimmauld Place. Navigating the house at this hour was an exercise in patience, with its uneven stairs and countless spots prone to groaning under the slightest pressure.

She descended the first flight, placing each step with care. The house, for all its age and gloom, had a way of making its presence known—the shifting of the wood, the faintest whisper of wind through unseen cracks. She ignored the prickle at the back of her neck, reminding herself that there was nothing here she couldn’t handle.

Reaching the second landing, she moved past the closed doors of sleeping occupants and started down the next staircase. The air grew slightly heavier as she neared the lower floors, the lingering scent of old parchment, dust, and something faintly metallic filling her senses.

Finally, she reached the correct floor and made her way toward the bathroom. The door creaked slightly as she pushed it open, stepping inside and closing it behind her. The space was dim, but functional, and as she reached for the lantern to bring a bit of light into the room, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

At least she had made it without incident.