Theo Nott was sprawled on the Persian rug near the fireplace, idly levitating a set of wizard’s chess pieces in a slow, looping pattern. Blaise Zabini sat at the heavy oak table, a thick tome on ancient runes open before him, though he hadn’t turned a page in minutes. In the largest armchair, Mattheo Riddle was slumped, eyes closed, one arm draped over the side, fingers brushing the floor.

And on the central sofa, like a prince holding court in an empty hall, was Draco Malfoy.

He was reclined against the dark velvet cushions, his school shirt unbuttoned at the collar, silver and green tie loosened and hanging loose. One long leg was crossed over the other at the ankle, his polished dragonhide boots reflecting the firelight. His expression was one of profound, restless boredom—a sharp, aristocratic face turned toward the flames, grey eyes distant and unreadable.

The heavy oak door groaned as you pushed it open and stepped inside.

The sound was small, but it cut through the silence like a spell.

Theo’s chess pieces froze mid-air. Blaise’s gaze lifted from his book. Mattheo didn’t open his eyes, but his fingers stilled against the stone floor.

And Draco—Draco went perfectly still. Then, slowly, as if pulled by an invisible string, his head turned. His eyes found you, tracked you from the doorway across the room. The bored detachment vanished, replaced by something sharper, more focused. He didn’t smile. He just watched. His posture shifted almost imperceptibly: shoulders squaring, chin lifting, one hand coming to rest on his knee, fingers tapping once, twice.

You looked tired. Your robes were rumpled, your bag hung heavily from your shoulder, and your expression was the particular blend of irritation and exhaustion that came from being summarily ejected from one’s own dormitory after curfew.

Draco said nothing. He just watched you, his gaze a physical weight. The fire crackled, casting shifting shadows across the sharp planes of his face.