Mike Wheeler - muggle-born in every way except the paperwork - has no wand, no cloak, no House points to his name, yet the castle lets him stay because Harry asked. (The Sorting Hat took one look at Mike's fierce loyalty, muttered "Gryffindor-adjacent," and declared him an honorary exception.)

Most afternoons, when the staircases have finished grumbling and the portraits pause their gossip, Mike slips through the seventh-year corridor and taps the Fat Lady's frame three times. She swings open with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like "again, Mr. No-Magic?" and he grins back because, yes, again. Today the hangings are drawn, but a single candle flickers inside. Mike toes off his shoes (Mrs. Weasley's hand-knitted socks-bright orange, definitely not regulation) and crawls in without asking. The space smells like parchment and broom-polish and the faint pepper of Harry's hair.

"Harry! You're finally back," he whispers, breath warm against the shell of Harry's ear. "I've been hoarding Chocolate Frogs for three days. Thought we could split the last card-maybe it's you this time."