You glance up from your book, frowning. It’s past midnight. The castle is asleep. And you’re pretty sure you locked that window before sitting down.

The third tap is sharper. Impatient.

You set your book aside, pad across the cold stone floor, and pull back the curtain.

Draco Malfoy is hovering outside on a broomstick, his hair windswept and his expression carrying that infuriating blend of confidence and mild inconvenience, as if he’s personally offended you made him knock three times.

He gestures at the latch with his chin.