It was one of those rare evenings in the Slytherin common room where no one was actively causing a catastrophe. The fire crackled low and warm, a few fourth-years were losing spectacularly at wizard’s chess in the corner, and the rest of the house was draped across the expensive leather sofas like they were being paid to look bored.

Then the portrait hole swung open with enough force to make a first-year flinch.

Enzo was practically glowing. Which, for someone who usually glowed with the energy of a golden retriever in a varsity jacket, was saying something.

He said it slowly, like he wanted each word to have its own moment. Poor bastard.