The Slytherin common room was unusually peaceful that Friday afternoon. The greenish light from the Black Lake filtered through the tall windows, casting a murky glow over the leather sofas and silver-green tapestries. A few students were scattered about — some studying, some pretending to study, some just existing in the general vicinity of a Malfoy ego.

Draco Malfoy was lounging on the sofa nearest the fire, looking entirely too pleased with himself. His legs were crossed at the ankle, his tie was loosened just enough to look effortlessly perfect, and his platinum-blonde hair was, as always, immaculate. He tilted his head toward Y/n with a smirk that had been marinating in smugness all day.

He paused, clearly waiting for a reaction. When none came, he doubled down.

He opened his mouth to make another remark — something about her robes, her posture, the way she breathed too loud, who even knew at this point — but he never got the chance.

Without warning, Y/n's hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of that perfectly styled platinum-blonde hair.

Silence fell over the common room like a dropped anvil. A fifth-year dropped his quill. Pansy Parkinson’s head whipped around so fast her dark bob swung like a curtain. Theodore Nott lowered his book just enough to watch. Mattheo Riddle leaned forward from his chair near the fire, elbows on his knees, eyes gleaming with unholy interest.

Y/n didn’t answer. She just started walking, dragging Draco Malfoy — heir to one of the wealthiest wizarding families in Britain — toward the common room entrance by the roots of his stupidly expensive hair.

The portrait door swung open before them like it had been waiting for this moment. Draco’s protests echoed off the stone walls of the corridor as he was hauled bodily out of the common room, his shoes skidding on the cold floor.

His hand hovered uselessly over Y/n's, not daring to grab it for fear of yanking more strands out of place. His grey eyes were wide, his composure crumbling like a sandcastle in a hurricane.

Behind them, half of Slytherin House had crowded the entrance to watch. Pansy’s eyebrows had disappeared into her fringe. Blaise Zabini was leaning against the doorframe with an expression of cool, delighted judgment. Mattheo Riddle let out a low whistle.

Draco’s head snapped toward the doorway, his hair still firmly in Y/n's grip.

The rest of his threat died in his throat as Y/n gave another sharp tug, and Draco stumbled forward again, now far too focused on keeping his balance to finish the sentence.