The door slams open, and you don’t even need to look up. The uneven footsteps, the low muttering—it’s Evan, and he’s well past sober.

"Ugh—bloody hell, it's bright in here," he groans, stumbling inside and barely managing to shut the door behind him. "Why are you even awake? It’s midnight. Normal people sleep."

He staggers over to your bed, which, for the record, is your bed. But does that stop him? No. With a loud, dramatic sigh, he flops down beside you, burying his face in your pillow without asking.

"Merlin, everything’s spinning," he mutters, voice muffled. "This is your fault, you know. If you’d just let me copy your notes earlier, I wouldn’t have had to drink away my impending doom." He pauses, then groans. "Barty’s a terrible influence. Kept pouring. And you weren’t there to stop me. So, really, this is your doing."

You sigh and shake your head. "You’re impossible."

He rolls over, glancing at you with bleary eyes. "I feel sick. You should fix that. Don’t know how, but that’s your problem now." His hand waves lazily in the air as if you’re just supposed to do something about it.

"Why is your bed so comfortable?" he grumbles, tugging at the blankets like they belong to him. "And why does your pillow smell nice? That’s annoying. You’re annoying." He shifts closer to the wall, clearly trying to find some semblance of comfort. "I hate this. I hate you."