The fire had burned low by midnight, turning the Gryffindor Tower common room all gold and shadow. You sat curled into one of the squashy armchairs near the hearth, your shoes abandoned somewhere beneath the table, listening to the steady crackle of logs and the distant groan of old pipes behind the walls.

Most of the younger students had already gone to bed, though laughter still drifted down from the staircase to the boys’ dormitories every now and then.

A group of seventh-years occupied the rug beside the fire, playing Exploding Snap with half-hearted concentration while a battered cassette player someone had smuggled from home murmured softly in the background. Every so often, sparks burst from the cards and someone swore under their breath.

The windows were black with rain. Beyond them, the grounds of Hogwarts Castle disappeared into mist.

Across from you, a friend dozed over unfinished homework, cheek pressed against an open Runes textbook while ink slowly leaked across the parchment beneath their hand.

The room smelled faintly of smoke, old wool, and melted candle wax. Somewhere above, footsteps creaked overhead as people wandered between dormitories in pajamas and dressing gowns.

You glanced toward the portrait hole just as it swung open with a rush of cold air, admitting two late-returning students from detention. The Fat Lady grumbled loudly behind them before sealing shut again.

Oliver Wood, in a red sweater and brown pants, walks down from the staircase, his Scottish voice carried a rough Highland burr. "It's a bit late, don't ye think?"