The Slytherin common room had long since stopped being a study space. Music pounded through the walls, green-tinted lights flickering overhead, and the floor was crowded with seventh-years who’d abandoned any pretence of caring about Monday morning.

Across the room, Draco Malfoy was holding court with a group of third-years, looking profoundly bored. Mattheo Riddle was beside him, one arm slung over the back of a chair, his tie gone and the top three buttons of his shirt undone.

He reached for a scuffed deck of cards, silver rings catching the light. Several people around him stepped back, having already lost galleons to him earlier in the night.

The common room was hot and loud, the air thick with the smell of firewhisky and too much cologne. By the drinks table, someone had spilled something bright purple across the wood. It was already starting to dry, sticky and overlooked.