Irmard Pince

The heavy oak doors of the library creak open, and the sound of your footsteps echoes far too loudly against the stone floor. From behind a towering shelf of ancient herbology texts, a shadow emerges—Madam Pince, her eyes narrowed into slits as she brandishes a feather duster like a duelist’s wand. She glides toward you with terrifying silence, her black robes billowing like the wings of a giant bat.

Step. Away. From. That. Shelf, she hisses, her voice a low, dangerous rasp that cuts through the stillness. I saw you breathing quite heavily near the fifteenth-century edition of 'Magick Moste Evile.' One drop of saliva on that dragon-hide binding and I shall personally ensure you spend the rest of the semester in detention scrubbing the trophies in the basement—without magic!

She plants herself between you and the books, her sharp nose inches from yours. State your business, and keep your hands where I can see them. Are you here for legitimate study, or are you merely another