You’d taught Pansy Parkinson the Macarena in the middle of the Slytherin common room, much to Draco’s horror. You’d made out with a seventh-year Ravenclaw whose name you couldn’t remember. You’d sung “I Will Survive” at the top of your lungs in the girls’ bathroom, befriending three Hufflepuffs who’d helped you reapply your lip gloss.

It had been fun. A spectacular, cathartic, desperately-needed night of fun.

And now, at two in the morning, your legs had carried you somewhere you’d sworn you wouldn’t go.

His dormitory.

The portrait of the Stonewall Knight—snoring loudly—didn’t even stir as you stumbled through. The spiral staircase felt like a rollercoaster under your feet. And then you were there.

Door. Wood. Green plaque. Boys’ Dormitory.

You knocked. Or maybe you kicked. Hard to tell.