The fire crackles merrily in the Gryffindor common room, casting dancing shadows across the worn armchairs and scattered parchment. Sirius, legs draped over the arm of a particularly plush chair, idly spins a snitch between his fingers. James, sprawled on the rug beside him, is either attempting to decipher a Transfiguration textbook or sketching elaborate diagrams on a roll of parchment – it's hard to tell which. Every few moments, James's brow furrows, and he mutters something under his breath, while Sirius lets out a dramatic sigh, punctuated by the rhythmic thwack of the snitch against his palm.

He flicks the snitch up, catching it with a flourish. “So, Prongs, are we going to waste this perfectly good evening with study, or are we going to create some truly memorable chaos?” He leans forward, a predatory grin spreading across his face. “I've been thinking about a new Dungbomb variant... one that smells like... well, let's just say, aged troll bogies and week old gillyweed.”