Dumbledore dips, and the Great Hall turns into a middle-school cafeteria on Red Bull—chaos.
"First-years, with me!" A lanky redhead at the Gryffindor table yells. "Percy Weasley, prefect. Stay put—then we're rolling to the common room."
"Hold up, Lynn—I gotta holler at Qiu real quick!"
Harley bolts from Lynn's side, dodging to the Ravenclaw table next door.
She's back in a flash, grinning like she just won the lottery.
"What'd you two plot?" Lynn side-eyes.
"Secret. You'll see tomorrow. Early bedtime, 'kay?"
"Whatever." Lynn's got no classes tomorrow—zero fucks.
They trail Percy outta the hall, up the spinning marble stairs. Portraits whisper like nosy Karens. Lynn's geeking—Hogwarts is a trip.
Gryffindor tower? Not a quick stroll. Two secret doors later (one behind a sliding panel, one behind a dusty-ass curtain), they hit the eighth-floor corridor.
Then—halt. Floating bundle of canes zooms at them like a missile.
"Peeves."
Percy ducks. Everyone hits the deck.
"Show yourself, Peeves!" Percy bellows like he's summoning a Pokémon.
PFFFFT-PFFFFT.
Answer? A fart symphony. Rank.
"Want me to snitch to the Bloody Baron?"
Peeves materializes, sticking out his tongue and spitting. "Heh-heh! Firstie pests! Fun!"
He charges with the canes—then vanishes. Canes clatter. Classic Peeves troll.
"Gone. For now." Percy's unfazed. "Beware this clown. Only the Baron can leash him. No prefect next time."
"Entrance ahead. Move."
Meanwhile, in a nearby bathroom—Peeves phases outta a toilet, spitting water. Tried to dive-bomb the kids, ate toilet water instead. Ghostly but soaked.
"WHO DARES PRANK PEEVES?!"
He screeches, but it's cope. As he rage-quits—
"This week's password: Dragon Slag."
Percy tells the Fat Lady. Portrait swings open.
"New passwords? Ask prefects or check the board. Read it before you leave."
First-years pile in. Circular room, plush armchairs. Upper-years already crashed—food coma.
Percy gives the tour, leads girls to their dorm, then boys to the spiral stairs.
"Nameplates on doors. Luggage by beds. Sleep."
Lynn spots his door easy. Five four-poster beds, sink, shower—fancy.
Roomies trickle in.
"Hey… hi…"
Awkward intros.
"Neville Longbottom."
"Seamus Finnigan."
"Dean Thomas."
Ron Weasley. (mumbles)
"Lynn."
Ron? Lynn's chill. Long as he doesn't steal his books, zero beef. Ron's anti-studying? Not his circus.
"Yo, Lynn!" Dean's chatty. "Got a juicy question."
"Shoot."
Lynn pulls a book—bookmark at 80%.
"Harley. Train gossip says Harry Potter = Boy-Who-Lived. Harley his sister? Twin? Clone?"
"No brother. Is she the Chosen One? Beats me."
"You're tight with her!" Ron jumps in, eyes squinting. "Same compartment—I saw!"
Lynn shrugs. "Two months. Not decades."
"Scar? Forehead scar?" Ron's desperate.
"Maybe I'm not that close—yanking a girl's hair to check for scars and yelling 'AHA!' ain't my vibe."
Ron flushes. Ego bruised. "Y'all were cuddling. Lies."
"You never had a girl bestie?" Lynn fires back. "Or just mommy and sisters? Explains the vibes."
Seamus and Dean cackle. Burn.
Ron huffs, yanks blanket over head. Seamus and Dean change into PJs. Lynn? Book mode. Ollivander's reading list = scroll to the floor. Plan: scan 100+ books by winter break.
"You still reading?" Seamus asks as Lynn heads out.
"Almost done. I'll kill the lights."
He douses the chandelier—Lumos charm, no plugs. Alchemy flex.
Empty common room. Lynn hooks right, hits the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy getting clubbed by trolls.
"I need the Hogwarts kitchens."
Paces three times. Door appears.
Inside? Chaos. House-elves bustling, cleaning. Spot Lynn—swarm.
"Coffee, please."
One elf pops a mug. Lynn dips, back in the corridor.
"Gryffindor's a W—kitchen run's faster than Hufflepuff."
Back in the lounge, he stirs sugar cubes, sips velvet coffee. Heaven.
Pages flip. Fire crackles. Midnight vibes—cozy, quiet, perfect for a bookworm.