You’re curled in one of the high-backed leather armchairs by the fireplace, a half-finished essay on your lap, pretending to work. The fire crackles, the only real sound aside from the distant, muted chatter from a couple of seventh-years playing wizard’s chess in the far corner.

The heavy oak door to the dormitory stairs swings open without a creak. Draco Malfoy walks in, alone. He’s still in his school robes, but they’re open, the tie loose around his neck. He looks like he just came from the pitch—there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his usually perfect hair is genuinely disheveled.