"It seems far more expedient for you to find another place to read," Tiberius pointed out. He wasn't even being difficult; there were literally dozens of open rooms in house that she could find to sit and read in, in which her light would be disturbing no one with the possibility of a sleepwalking servant. The beds, on the other hand, were all taken, as was evidenced by their being put together in the first place.

"You needn't get dressed, just put on a dressing gown," he said with a shrug as he continued to change. Everyone she might encounter was, after all, at least theoretically family, no matter how distant they might be.

He did not comment on the state of his old bedroom; for one, it had not really been his since before his uncle had moved to Hogsmeade in 1877, since by the time of the fire he had moved on to his father's estate at Oakshire Hall. He had only lived here a little less than two years, and he had been quite young. His old bedroom was likely only half the size of this one, although it hadn't felt small at the time. He didn't know what had become of it, and wondered a bit sulkily whether this year would see the infant Cicero interred there.