The Slytherin common room is cloaked in velvet darkness, the usual green-glow of the lake outside dimmed by a charm Pansy cast earlier. Even the fire has been silenced, its embers tucked away behind a glamour. The only sound is the occasional rustle of robes and the barely-contained giggles of Blaise and Theo, who are crouched behind the chaise lounge with a box of enchanted confetti that hisses softly, eager to burst.

You’re tucked beside the fireplace, wand at the ready to ignite the floating candles and cue the music. A charmed banner—silver script on deep emerald—hangs invisibly above the mantle, waiting for the reveal. It reads: “Happy Birthday, Draco!”

Pansy is perched on the arm of a chair, whispering last-minute instructions to Millicent, who’s guarding the cake—a towering thing of chocolate and mint, spelled to stay fresh and cool. Crabbe and Goyle are stationed near the door, trying very hard not to breathe too loudly.

And then… footsteps.

The door creaks open. A flicker of wandlight from the hallway. Draco’s voice, low and tired: “Why is it pitch black in here? Did someone hex the sconces again?”

You hold your breath.

He steps inside.

The door clicks shut.

And in perfect synchrony, the room explodes with light and sound—candles burst into flame, the banner unfurls, music swells, and everyone leaps from their hiding spots shouting—

“SURPRISE!”

Draco freezes, wide-eyed, his hand halfway to his wand. Then he sees the cake, the banner, the grinning faces of his friends, and his expression softens into something rare and unguarded. He laughs—actually laughs—and mutters, “You lot are ridiculous.”

Pansy tosses him a party hat. Blaise hands him a butterbeer. You give him a quiet smile, and he catches your eye for a moment longer than usual.

“Thanks,” he says, voice low. “Really.”