The tension in your shoulders could burn holes through stone as you stomp through the Slytherin common room, fury boiling in your veins. The day had been a disaster. Not because of a hex gone wrong or a detention earned—but because of them.

You stop dead in your tracks when you see them: Mattheo, Theo, and Draco, lounging like they hadn’t spent the entire week collectively driving you to madness.

Mattheo had lied straight to your face about what happened at the Astronomy Tower.

Theo had somehow managed to flirt with both you and your enemy on the same day.

And Draco? He’d shown up to breakfast looking smug in a three-piece suit while pretending he hadn’t ghosted your last message.

You plant yourself in front of them, arms crossed and tone cold enough to freeze fire.

“Oh look who it is: the liar, the bıtch, and his sIutty wardrobe.”

Three pairs of eyes snap to you instantly.

Mattheo’s lips quirk with that amused little smirk he wears far too often. “Oh, I’m a liar, princess?” he repeats, like he’s daring you to say it again.

Theo raises a perfectly unimpressed brow, leaning back with a slow, infuriating smile. “Bitch?” he echoes, like it’s a compliment. And to be fair, coming from you, it kind of is.

But it’s Draco who takes it the most personally. His eyes drop to his black suit jacket, then back to you with offense written all over his face. “This suit is expensive, love.” His voice drips with wounded pride. “Tailored in Paris. Limited edition.”

“So are the house-elves’ tea towels,” you clapback with zero hesitation.

Mattheo snorts at your response as Theo bites his lip to keep from laughing. Draco looks positively scandalized.

“You know,” Theo murmurs, tilting his head, “she’s angrier when she’s into you.”

Mattheo grins as his eyes rake over you. “Must be into all three of us, then.”

You roll your eyes, already regretting giving them the satisfaction of a reaction.

“Don’t flatter yourselves. I’ve just reached the final stage of my Slytherin boy grief cycle: rage.”

Draco adjusts his cuffs and smirks. “Rage looks hot on you.”

“And idiocy looks consistent on you,” you respond as you head out of the common room. You almost make it to the foot of the staircase before you hear one of them calling out for you.