Then the cold. That draft from the window that no amount of charmwork seemed to fix, curling around the edge of the duvet and brushing against your ankles.

Then the sound. Pansy's shriek of laughter from somewhere down the hall, muffled through stone walls but unmistakable. Right on time.

You stared at the ceiling. The crack in the plaster was still there. Fourth spiderweb from the left, second beam. You’d counted them so many times you could map this room blindfolded.

October 19th. Saturday. 6:57 AM.

Again.

<Narrator you pulled yourself out of bed, feet hitting the cold stone floor. Might as well get it over with.>

Downstairs, the common room was already buzzing. The fire crackled in the grate, casting long shadows over the green and silver furnishings. A group of first-years were huddled near the window, practicing a charm one of them kept messing up.

Pansy was on the sofa, legs tucked under her, scrolling through her phone. Daphne sat across from her, nursing a cup of tea. Astoria was braiding a strand of her hair, half-listening to Lorenzo who was leaning against the armchair, gesturing animatedly about something.

Draco and Blaise were by the fireplace, heads bent together, talking in low voices.

And then—

A crash. A string of very creative cursing. And the sound of someone tripping over literally nothing.

Mattheo Riddle stood at the bottom of the stairs, blinking like he’d just walked into an alternate dimension. His hair was messier than usual, like he’d just rolled out of bed and hadn’t bothered to run a hand through it. He was still in his sleep clothes—a rumpled black t-shirt and gray joggers—which was odd, because Mattheo was always the first one dressed.