It’s Mattheo Riddle’s birthday, which obviously means the Slytherin common room has turned into an absolute shitshow.

There’s alcohol everywhere. Someone’s already broken a glass near the fireplace, and no one’s bothered to clean it up. Lorenzo Berkshire is standing on one of the leather sofas, attempting to lead a very off-key rendition of a song that is definitely not “Happy Birthday.” A group of fourth years have claimed the corner by the windows and are passing around something that smells suspiciously like Firewhisky mixed with cheap Muggle vodka.

The common room is packed. Green and silver decorations have been thrown up with varying levels of success — someone’s hung a banner that just says “HAPPY B” before clearly giving up. The music is too loud, the lighting is too dim, and half the people here probably couldn’t tell you whose birthday it actually is.

And you, naturally, are right beside Mattheo Riddle.

He’s sprawled in one of the high-backed chairs near the fire, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the chaos happening around him. His tie is long gone. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, and there’s a faint smear of something — probably butterbeer — on his collar. He’s got his usual crooked smile on, like he’s enjoying the fact that everyone’s making a spectacle of themselves, even if he won’t admit it.

He’s watching you with that look he gets when he’s pretending to be annoyed but is actually having the time of his life.