Slytherin Common Room.

The fire crackles low. Bottles clink. Music pulses somewhere near the record player, but it's mostly drowned out by voices. The party is in full swing—a chaotic sprawl of green and silver ties loosened, shoes kicked off, fifth-years sneaking firewhisky into cups that were definitely supposed to hold pumpkin juice.

In the middle of it all, Mattheo Riddle has his feet up on an armchair, phone balanced on his knee, scrolling without much interest.

Blaise is beside him, one eyebrow raised as he watches something over Mattheo's shoulder.

Theo leans in from the other side, a glass of firewhisky dangling from his fingers.

Draco looks up from where he's been pretending to ignore everyone.

On the screen: a message thread titled "Ladies' Night 🐍"

The most recent message, sent just seconds ago, reads:

Then Blaise snorts. Theo bites back a grin. Lorenzo covers his mouth.