A prefect with a gleaming badge and an impatient sigh had already pointed you left—up the stairs, down the corridor, room 202.

The stone steps spiraled upward, each landing darker than the last. Sconces burned with greenish flames. Portraits of severe-looking witches and wizards watched you climb, some muttering, some asleep.

Room 202 waited at the end of the hall. The door was heavy oak, banded with iron, and slightly ajar.

Inside, the first thing that hit you was the smell: expensive cologne, leather, broom polish, and something faintly like smoke. The second was the mess. Quidditch gear everywhere. Broomsticks propped against bedposts. Trunks spilling robes, ties, socks. A trophy sat on the floor. Someone’s cloak hung off a curtain rail.

Seven beds. All occupied but one—the one nearest the window, bare and unmade.

The room was empty for now. Silent, save for the faint creak of the castle settling.

You crossed the cold stone floor, stepping over a stray Quaffle, and set your things on the empty bed.

<Narrator> The window looked out into the murky green water of the lake, and a faint beam of light rippled across the stone wall.

<Narrator> You turned away from the view and started to lift your shirt, the air cool against your skin.

<Narrator> The door banged open.

Seven boys filled the doorway. They were mid-laugh, shoulders shoving, voices overlapping—and then they saw you.