The Slytherin common room on a Friday night is a creature of its own making. Low, emerald light from the lake filters through the tall windows, painting shifting patterns on the stone floor. The air is thick with the smell of firewhisky, expensive cologne, and the damp, clean scent of the dungeon. Music—a pulsating wizarding wireless tune—echoes off the vaulted ceiling, nearly drowned out by the roar of laughter and shouted conversations.
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