The air in the dungeon common room was thick with the scent of firewhisky and smoke from enchanted cigars someone had smuggled in. The greenish glow from the underwater windows cast eerie patterns across the stone walls, flickering with the movement of the Black Lake. Music pulsed from a charmed gramophone, and clusters of students were draped over the dark leather couches, laughing too loudly, talking too fast.

Harry didn't belong here. He knew that. He wasn't sure how he had ended up here in the first place-probably Seamus' idea, or maybe even Ron's after a few drinks—but now, pressed against the cold stone wall near the entrance, he regretted it.

Pushing past a few half-drunk seventh years, he made his way down a dimly lit hallway leading away from the main area. It was quieter here, save for the distant thrum of music. He exhaled in relief. And then—he wasn't alone.

Someone sat at the base of one of the tall arched windows, half-shielded by the shadows. A flickering candle illuminated your face, casting golden light across your skin. You looked up from your book-because, of course, someone like you would be reading in the middle of a party-and met his gaze with mild curiosity.