Y/n was out of bed. Out of the common room. Out past curfew, for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with a certain platinum-haired disaster of a wizard currently doing the exact same thing on the opposite side of the corridor.

Classic.

Footsteps. Heavy. Dragging. Accompanied by the unmistakable sound of someone muttering about "filthy students" and "this time, Pringle will let me use the shackles."

Filch.

The door clicked shut.

The cupboard was not built for two people.

I have seen broom cupboards. I have seen broom cupboards built for one person. This was a broom cupboard built for approximately one broom and a bucket, and somehow two full-sized, fully grown eighteen-year-olds had just compressed themselves into it.

Outside, Filch hummed tunelessly. Something metal clinked. Keys. The doorknob rattled.

Both of them went completely still. Draco's hand was still wrapped around Y/n's wrist. His breathing was loud in the dark—too loud, Y/n realized, because theirs was just as loud in response. This was deeply unfortunate.