A group of fourth-year boys had taken over the corner by the fireplace, attempting to bounce a jinxed ball off the ceiling. Someone’s drink had already spilled on the rug.

Pansy was perched on the arm of a velvet sofa, gesturing dramatically at Daphne while a half-empty bottle of firewhisky dangled from her fingers.

On the sofa near the window, Theodore Nott sat with one arm draped along the backrest, legs crossed, wand lazily tracing patterns in the air. His drink was barely touched.