No matter how much we wish the contrary, the only person who will ever own the people and locations and, indeed, miscellaneous facts about Harry Potter is J.K. Rowling.
...I am not her.
I was awakened by a gush of cool night air from the window, which was open and directly across the dormitory from me. Vaguely, I wondered if I should shut it – should I risk leaving my cocoon of warmth, or waking up one of my dorm-mates? Perhaps one of them was suffering from a fever, and needed the window open to cool off.
I sighed into my pillow, and resigned to closing my hangings when I slept from now on. The only boy who did so was the one who slept nearest to the door. I didn't know his name. I didn't know any of my roommates' names: after the Sorting, we had all stuck to eating and after that, we were too bloated to introduce ourselves. One would think that we would know each other, at least, from Professor McGonagall, who called us up to the three-legged stool by our full name. "Black, Sirius," she'd said, the first name of all, and I remembered all noise dying and everyone who wasn't facing me turning to look. It was so eerie, the sea of faces with their black wizards hats, all swinging around at once to peer at me. The first-years, though, were too busy calming their nerves to pay even the slightest bit of attention to me. I was glad.
My eyes wandered helplessly about the room that hosted home to four nameless boys with pride. I wondered what it would say to its relatives, the other dorms...
"Good day to you, chaps," it would say as it perched itself on the edge of a stool. His extensive family of dormitories would stare at him, then, a sea of green and blue and red and yellow. Our dorm would smile warmly as it was offered a cup of tea by a bustling Kitchen. "I was chosen for the first-years, I was, and what a bunch of stinking sods they are, the lot of them. All of them are nameless, you know; don't give a care for anyone else. One stayed up half the night reading, one was asleep before he hit the pillow – Good Merlin, that bloke snores loudly – one refuses to say a word and the other just mopes about."
Then his dormitory family would comfort him, stretching their arms around him like he was loved. And he'd gradually push them off, then take a sip of his tea like a dignified gentlemen, though none of the men I knew had ever drank tea, and his eyes would sparkle warmly, because red cannot look cold, or joyful, or intelligent. It's warm, all day long. Night, too, I expect, but right then I was too cold to imagine the evening being comfortable. "But it's alright," he'd say, "They'll introduce themselves eventually. Tomorrow, most likely, when their names are called off of the roll. Then, I expect, there will be quite a few incredulous looks shared as they recall people with the same last name. Then, awkwardness, because they're young boys and awkward silence is natural." And then our dormitory would sigh, because he knew that though the scenario sounded likely, there was no way that we would ever introduce ourselves willingly.
Yes, I reasoned with myself. That sounds incredibly likely. We'll just drag ourselves through seven silent years of schooling like the sods we are.
And then, against my will, for I had just gotten the hang of pessimistic thoughts – I fell asleep.