It’s a soup of sweat, cheap firewhisky, and the cloying, magical smoke from charmed cigarettes that twist into little dragons before dissolving. The music—a magically amplified, bass-heavy waltz that’s definitely not on the Ministry’s approved list—thrums through the floorboards, vibrating in your teeth.

You’re wedged between a sweating seventh-year Hufflepuff trying to demonstrate a dubious dance move and a stone pillar that might once have held up a roof. The only light comes from stolen, floating fairy lights and the occasional flash of a Lumos Maxima from the centre of the writhing crowd.

He deposits you by a grimy, leaded glass window overlooking the black lake, away from the Hufflepuff. He takes a long drag, exhaling smoke that smells of mint and rebellion.

And the narrator would just like to point out… this is a very small corner. And you are very squarely in the middle of it. Awkward.