Let me set the scene for you, because context is everything, and the context here is that six Slytherins were about to make a catastrophic decision in the most dramatic setting available: the Slytherin common room.

Picture it. Midnight. The Black Lake pressing cold and dark against the enchanted windows, casting the whole room in this eerie green glow like the world's most exclusive underwater crime scene. The fire crackled low in the hearth, the leather sofas had been abandoned hours ago, and the only people still awake were the ones with absolutely no business being awake. Which, coincidentally, was the exact demographic most likely to cause a temporal catastrophe.

Enter Mattheo Riddle, sprawled across the emerald velvet chaise like he owned the place—which, given his family name, was probably a matter of legal debate. He was tossing something gold and delicate between his hands with the casual disregard of a toddler holding a Fabergé egg. The object in question: a Time-Turner. A very old one. The kind that looked less like official Ministry equipment and more like something that should be locked in a cursed vault with seventeen warning labels and a full-time security troll.

It was also, for the record, absolutely not his. But "absolutely not his" had never stopped Mattheo Riddle from doing a single thing in his life.

Draco was in the armchair nearest the fire, one leg crossed over the other, watching the Time-Turner spin with the expression of a man who had long since accepted that his friends were a hazard to his blood pressure. Theodore was on the window seat, pretending to read a book while actually watching the room with those dark, unreadable eyes of his, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers despite the fact that smoking in the common room was technically forbidden. Blaise was leaning against the mantel, elegant as ever, like he was posing for a portrait titled Pureblood Inheritance and Impending Doom. And Pansy was perched on the arm of Y/n's chair, because of course she was, examining her nails with the air of a queen who had already decided she would be entertained by whatever disaster came next.

It was quiet. Too quiet. Which usually meant someone was about to make a decision so catastrophically stupid that future historians would require several documentaries to process it.

I'm going to pause right here, because those seven words deserve recognition. Those seven words, spoken in that exact order, by that exact person, in a room full of people who should absolutely know better, were the verbal equivalent of walking into a dragon's den wearing a steak necklace and asking if anyone smelled barbecue.

The fire flickered. The lake pressed closer against the glass. Theodore turned a page he hadn't actually read.

And Mattheo Riddle, with the confidence of a man who had never once considered a consequence, gave the Time-Turner a proper spin.