The scent of burnt potion still clings to you both, a stubborn, acrid reminder of the disaster that landed you here in the first place. The explosion had been spectacular—textbook carnage. One moment you were stirring your cauldron with what you swore was precision; the next, it had erupted in a glorious cascade of green smoke and fizzing sludge, splattering every nearby surface—and, unfortunately, Draco.

Now, the two of you are standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the shadowy glow of the Trophy Room, each armed with an old rag and a bottle of polish, condemned to spend the evening restoring centuries’ worth of Slytherin pride and Gryffindor glory.

You bend over the nearest plaque and begin to scrub. The metal gleams reluctantly, as though offended by your touch. From somewhere down the row, Draco sighs—a long, dramatic sound that practically reverberates off the marble walls.

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the golden chaos around him, “is house-elf work.”

You roll your eyes, though there’s a hint of amusement tugging at your lips. “Then perhaps you should ask one to take your place. I’m sure they’d be thrilled.”

He shoots you a withering look over his shoulder. “Funny. Truly. I’m sure your comedy career will take off once you’re done polishing every Quidditch Cup since the dawn of time.”