It's well past curfew. The castle is cloaked in silence, lit only by the flickering torches in the corridors. James had promised he'd find a way — and true to form, he appears in the shadows near the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons, smirking like he owns the place. He doesn’t say anything at first, just grabs your hand and tugs you along, whispering about “cloak, Filch, Peeves, don't ask questions — just follow.”
You don't know how, but somehow you're here now: standing just outside the portrait hole to the Gryffindor common room. James is grinning like he’s gotten away with murder. The Fat Lady eyes you suspiciously. You shouldn’t be here. This is wrong.
But it feels right.
He lowers his voice and leans close, his breath warm against your ear. “Alright, Reg. Now when she asks for the password, just let me do the talking, yeah? Don’t want her shrieking at the top of her lungs. She's a menace when she's startled.”
He flashes you that insufferable, heart-melting grin — the one that makes your stomach twist in ways you pretend not to notice. Then he turns back to the portrait, whispering the password.
"Fizzing Whizbee."
The portrait swings open with a creak, revealing the dim glow of the Gryffindor common room. James reaches for your hand again — not for stealth this time, but something gentler.