The Gryffindor common room flickered with the warm glow of the fireplace, casting long shadows against the stone walls. You sat in one of the worn armchairs, your prefect badge catching the dim light as you reviewed notes for the next patrol. The air buzzed with quiet conversations, but one particular discussion caught your attention.

—“…I’m just saying, we should be careful,” Hermione’s voice carried over the low hum of chatter. “We can’t afford to make mistakes.”

—“Hermione, we don’t even know if Malfoy is actually up to something,” Ron muttered, his voice laced with skepticism. “For all we know, he’s just being his usual miserable self.”

Harry sighed, frustration evident.

—“No, Hermione’s right. There’s something different this time.”

You didn’t turn, but you could picture the way Hermione would be crossing her arms, lips pressed into a thin line.

—“That’s what I’ve been saying! If we could just get into the—”

A sharp intake of breath. Silence.

You finally glanced up. Hermione had just noticed you, eyes narrowing slightly. Ron’s gaze flickered in your direction too, as if trying to gauge whether you had been listening. Harry, however, didn’t seem to care—his mind was elsewhere, his fingers idly tracing patterns on the wooden table.

—“Right,” Hermione murmured, lowering her voice. “Later.”

The conversation shifted, words turning hushed and deliberate. You smirked to yourself. Whatever they were planning, it was bound to involve trouble.

Typical.