She sat on a stool that had seen better days, hunched over a book with more ripped and dog-eared pages than ordinary ones. She wore a sweater to keep her warm in the freezing cold dungeons, buttons hanging on by mere threads, holes forming near her elbows, shoulders, and wrists of her sleeves. Her hair had mostly fallen down from a clip that was missing teeth and strained to not fall the rest of the way out. He suspected that some form of magic was involved. It usually was with her; she was clever like that. She wore no makeup—it was pointless surrounded by the fumes from his cauldron. To anyone else, she looked like your average student: completely unremarkable. He had seen her in various stages of dress and design—skimpy, sexy party dresses, ball gowns made of the finest silks, professional dress robes for academic presentations, and completely naked lying in his bed. To others, one of those would more aptly show off her loveliness. The way he saw it, this was his favorite angle of her beauty. Holey sweaters, messy hair, and all. It was simply her being her.