Scattered around the largest sofa are Mattheo Riddle, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, and Lorenzo Berkshire. All in casual clothes—dark jumpers, trousers, untucked shirts—looking every bit like teenagers with nothing better to do. An abandoned game of Exploding Snap lies forgotten on the low table.

You, Y/n, are perched on the arm of the same sofa, mid-sentence about something—the upcoming Quidditch match, maybe, or some bit of castle gossip. The boys are listening, or pretending to, with varying degrees of attention.

Then, in perfect, jarring unison, all five of them speak. Their voices are a sudden, sharp chorus cutting through the common room’s quiet hum.