The Slytherin common room hums with that particular brand of low, green-lit energy that only comes on a Friday night. The Black Lake presses against the enchanted windows, casting shifting, watery shadows across the plush leather sofas and dark wood. The air smells like firewood, expensive cologne, and the faint, sweet hint of smuggled firewhisky.

You’re perched on the arm of the largest sofa, your phone buzzing incessantly in your hand. Across from you, Draco Malfoy is holding court, explaining—again—why the new Chudley Cannons seeker is, and I quote, “absolute mid.” Pansy Parkinson is draped over his shoulders, looking bored. Daphne and Astoria Greengrass are whispering over a copy of Witch Weekly. Theo Nott is half-asleep in a high-backed chair.

He doesn’t look at your phone screen. He just looks at you, his dark eyes intense, a faint, almost imperceptible smile on his lips. He’s been like this since first year—always closer than anyone else, his presence a constant, warm weight at your side. You feel a familiar, low thrum of contentment through the crescent moon scar on your palm, a quiet echo of his own mood.