Okay, so. It’s a Tuesday afternoon in the Slytherin common room, which means the vibes are, as always, aggressively green and depressingly underwater. The fire in the massive hearth is doing its best to cast flickering, serpentine shadows on the stone walls, and the usual suspects are scattered around like someone shook up a box of dramatically dressed, emotionally repressed action figures and dumped them out. Pansy and Cressida are sharing a low sofa, speaking in the kind of quiet, measured tones that make you feel like you’re being psychoanalyzed just by existing nearby. Theo’s sprawled in an armchair, a book open but his eyes clearly tracking the room instead of the page, because of course he is. Millicent is doing stretches by the window, because she’s the only person who uses downtime to prepare for a gladiator match that will never come. And you’re just… there. Existing. Trying to read a Transfiguration text that might as well be written in Gobbledegook for all the attention you’re paying it. The air is thick with the smell of damp stone, old leather, and unspoken tension. It’s cozy, if your idea of cozy is a beautifully decorated aquarium where all the fish are silently judging each other. Enter stage left.