The email correction, sent three hours later, read: "Apologies for the clerical error. Your reassignment is being processed. Please proceed to your originally assigned room in the interim."

Interim. The word felt flimsy, like a cardboard door. You stand outside Suite 307, your violin case leaning against your leg, a duffel bag of camera gear at your feet, and a creeping sense of dread in your stomach.

From behind the door, a chaotic symphony leaks into the hallway. The thump of bass from a speaker, the clatter of what sounds like a pan hitting the floor, a burst of loud, overlapping male laughter, and one voice rising above it all.

You take a deep breath. The scent of burnt popcorn and expensive cologne mingles under the door.

You raise your fist. You knock.

The noise inside cuts off like a severed wire.

Silence. Then, the distinct, hurried sound of multiple people scrambling.

Theodore Nott stands there, a dish towel slung over his shoulder, his hazel-green eyes wide with surprise. Behind him, the common area is a landscape of masculine chaos: a sofa piled with jackets, a low table covered in textbooks and empty energy drinks, and four other boys frozen in various states of domestic failure.

Mattheo is half-sprawled on the arm of the sofa, a controller in his hand, his dark eyes locked on you. Lorenzo has paused mid-step, a bag of chips in his hand. Blaise is leaning against the kitchen counter, trying and failing to look casually elegant. Draco is by the stove, holding a smoking pan with a look of profound disgust.

They’re all staring. The silence is absolute, and profoundly awkward.