At 3:17 a.m., civilization collapses in stages.
First goes dignity.
Then rational thought.
Then, inevitably, all functioning toilets.
Andaal knew this pattern intimately now. Every night her dreams deposited her in some new impossible location — Venetian palace, underwater mall, wedding hosted inside a volcano — and every single time, just when her bladder reached DEFCON-1, every washroom vanished from existence.
Not occupied.
Not dirty.
Gone.
Like a sinister municipal conspiracy.
Tonight she found herself in a sprawling gothic castle lit by floating candles.
“Oh, fantastic,” she muttered while waddling down a corridor. “Now my subconscious has unionized with British fantasy literature.”
Portraits watched her rush past.
One elderly wizard coughed delicately and said, “Third corridor to the left.”
Andaal nearly wept with gratitude.
She sprinted left.
Dead end.
A tapestry showing trolls playing badminton.
“No no no no—”
A suit of armor leaned toward her and whispered sympathetically, “The toilets move when afraid.”
“What kind of emotionally fragile plumbing system is this?”
Then she heard footsteps.
A tall figure with a silver beard appeared at the end of the hall.
Andaal gasped.
“Professor Dumbledore!”
The wizard blinked.
“Good heavens,” he said mildly. “You look distressed.”
“I NEED A BATHROOM.”
“A common human tragedy.”
“You found hidden chambers in this school! Secret passages! Cursed mirrors! Tell me the chant for discovering toilets!”
Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully.
“Ah yes. The Room of Requirement.”
“Yes! THAT! PLEASE!”
“It appears only when one is in great need.”
“I am in tremendous need!”
“Then perhaps you must walk past the wall three times while concentrating deeply on what you seek.”
Andaal immediately began speed-waddling past a stone wall.
“One toilet.”
Shuffle.
“One functioning toilet.”
Shuffle.
“One toilet with good water pressure and maybe lavender handwash.”
The wall shimmered.
A door appeared.
Angelic choir music exploded from nowhere.
Andaal almost sobbed.
She grabbed the handle—
—and woke up.
3:17 a.m.
Of course.
“The universe is a sadist,” she informed the darkness.
The digital clock glowed smugly beside her bed.
3:17.
Again.
Her room smelled faintly of cold moisturizer and bad decisions.
Andaal dragged herself to the mirror.
The reflection staring back looked like a woman who had fought raccoons behind a nightclub.
Puffy eyes.
Crooked bun.
Nightshirt reading Pasta La Vista.
“Excellent,” she muttered. “I’ve become an exhausted ravioli spirit.”
Then the reflection smiled.
Not copied.
Initiated.
Andaal froze.
Mirror-Andaal stood immaculate in formal office clothes, eyeliner sharp enough to file taxes. She looked hydrated. Organized. The kind of woman who replied to emails immediately.
Terrifying.
Mirror-Andaal waved enthusiastically.
Andaal whispered, “Nope.”
She stepped right.
Mirror-Andaal remained still.
Still waving.
Still smiling.
Then she mouthed something silently.
Andaal squinted.
The reflection exaggerated the words carefully:
Did you find the toilet?
“Oh absolutely not.”
Mirror-Andaal looked genuinely disappointed.
Then she picked up a Post-it note from somewhere beyond the mirror and slapped it against the glass.
The note appeared on Andaal’s side.
Andaal stared at it.
ROOM OF REQUIREMENT WORKS ONLY IF YOU CLENCH WITH SINCERITY.
“What does that even mean?!”
Another Post-it appeared.
DUMBLEDORE SAYS STOP PANICKING.
A third followed immediately.
ALSO STOP DRINKING WATER AT MIDNIGHT LIKE A DESERT CAMEL.
Andaal backed away slowly.
The reflection leaned closer.
Behind Mirror-Andaal stretched that impossible office again — endless cubicles under flickering white lights. Hundreds of Andaals typing furiously.
One Andaal was asleep on a keyboard.
Another was crying into a stapler.
A third was still apparently searching for a toilet with a lantern and a map.
Then, from somewhere in the mirrored office dimension, a voice boomed:
“HAS ANYONE SEEN THE FUNCTIONING LOO?”
Twenty exhausted Andaals screamed back in unison:
“CHECK HOGWARTS!”
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