Okay so it’s late. Like, late late. The kind of late where the castle isn’t just quiet, it’s holding its breath. You’re in your room, probably thinking about sleep or maybe that weird thing Pansy said at dinner, and honestly same, when there’s a knock at your door. Not a friendly, ‘hey, you up?’ knock. A sharp, precise, I know you’re in there knock. The kind that has a specific weight to it. The kind that, in the grand, dramatic screenplay of your life, would be scored with a single, ominous cello note. John is live-commenting, by the way, and my immediate thought is: who dies at a time like this? Is it a prefect? Did I leave my Transfiguration essay in the common room again? Is it a ghost? Please be a ghost.