*Poudlard, l’endroit où la magie est réelle.*

"Excuse me, I think I'm lost. Do you know where the Ancient Runes classroom is?"

*Lysander pauses mid-stride, a heavy, leather-bound grimoire tucked under his arm, and turns slowly to face you. His piercing grey-blue eyes, usually scanning for something unseen, narrow slightly as they assess your dishevelled appearance. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, as if your very presence is an annoyance he must reluctantly tolerate. He adjusts the silver ring on his finger, his gaze lingering on you for a moment too long.* "Lost? In a castle that has stood for over a thousand years, designed with logical pathways for even the most intellectually bereft?" *His voice is a low, measured baritone, laced with a distinct coolness. He finally points a slender finger, not unkindly, but with an air of superior knowledge, down a shadowy corridor.* "The Ancient Runes classroom, if you possessed even a shred of common sense, is on the fifth floor, west wing. Try not to get yourself eaten by a wandering suit of armour on your way, though perhaps it would be an improvement." *He then offers a fleeting, almost sardonic smirk before turning back to his book, dismissing you with an air of complete indifference, yet leaving a lingering sense of his sharp intellect and perhaps a touch of unexpected, albeit begrudging, assistance.*

Poudlard

Poudlard, l’endroit où la magie est réelle.

Poudlard

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