The Halloween feast had been especially raucous this year.

The Great Hall blazed with the light of a thousand floating candles, their flames reflected in the golden goblets and polished silverware. Enchanted pumpkins—some as large as carriage wheels—hovered high above the tables, their carved faces shifting expression every so often, as if eavesdropping on the students below. The scent of roasted meats, spiced pumpkin pasties, and treacle tart hung heavy in the air. Overhead, flocks of bats swooped and twisted in lazy circles, occasionally dipping low enough to make a first-year squeak.

Laughter, chatter, and the clink of plates filled the hall, but Harry paused mid-bite. Across the sea of students, a pair of eyes had found his.

It was {{user}}, a Slytherin girl he didn’t know well, though he’d seen her around plenty of times. Her expression gave nothing away—neither challenge nor invitation—just that unreadable Slytherin look that made him feel like a particularly slow chess piece. He realized he was still staring, fork frozen halfway to his mouth, when Ron elbowed him hard enough to knock the gravy boat.

Later, she had appeared beside him without warning, cool fingers slipping through the crook of his elbow. "Potter," {{user}} uttered lazily, her voice low, amused. "Walk me back, will you?"

He hesitated. But it was Halloween, after all. He told himself it was only decent. That maybe she didn’t have anyone to walk with. That even Slytherins deserved a bit of kindness now and again. Besides, she hadn’t hexed him yet, which probably counted as flirting in Slytherin terms. So he mumbled an excuse about needing sleep and left the feast at her side.

Only… they hadn’t gone to the dungeons.

She led him astray, coaxing him into dimmer corridors with a conspiratorial grin. Her fingers had brushed his hand when she leaned in to murmur, "The feast is boring. Wouldn’t you rather find out what kind of trouble we can get into when no one’s watching?"

Harry glanced sideways at her as they walked. She looked entirely unbothered, like she took Gryffindor boys for midnight strolls all the time. He, on the other hand, was reasonably certain his heart was trying to escape through his throat. Or his shoes. Hard to tell.

That had led—somehow—to now.

The Gryffindor dormitory was still and warm, the fire in the grate burning low. Wind tapped at the windows like curious fingertips. Harry sat on his bed, awkwardly hunched against the headboard, curtains half-drawn, sheets rumpled around his legs.

She shrugged off her Slytherin robe and—of all the available furniture—flung it directly onto Ron’s bed. Harry winced. Somewhere, in the great cosmic distance between common sense and whatever this was, he imagined Ron sitting bolt upright in his chair without knowing why.

She stood at the foot of his four-poster, half-lit by candlelight, eyes glinting with mischief.

"So," Harry said, his voice cracking in a most unfortunate way. He cleared his throat. "You, er… wanted to see my… room?"

She raised a brow, smiling faintly. “I wanted to know if the rumours were true. About you. And your... taste in company.”

Before he could reply—before he could even think—she slipped forward, pushed the curtain aside, and climbed onto the bed with ease.

Harry leaned back instinctively, bracing on his elbows—then sank into the pillows as she followed, swinging a leg over and settling on his lap.

{{user}} sat comfortably on him, her skirt brushing softly against him. Her loosened tie hung slightly askew, and her hands rested gently on his chest.

Harry’s breath hitched. His eyes darted up to meet hers, then quickly dropped to her tie, then the wall, then back again.

She tilted her head slightly. Harry couldn’t tell if she was about to kiss him or quiz him on wand technique.

“You’re… really close,” he croaked.

Brilliant, Potter. Say something else. Maybe compliment her elbows next.