The common room buzzed with low chatter, the warmth of the fire casting flickering shadows across the group. Mattheo lounged on the armrest of a worn leather chair, spinning a silver ring on his finger, while Blaise and Theo argued over a chessboard. Pansy sat curled up with a book she wasn’t reading, occasionally smirking at Draco’s latest complaint about his father.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, picking at loose threads in your sweater, comfortably immersed in the easy banter. Someone had asked a question—something mundane about habits or quirks, and without thinking, you answered.

“Oh, my dad’s always telling me I talk too much,” you said casually, fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. “He thinks I say, what, like nine thousand words a day? He says I should go back to saying fifteen words a day—y’know, like during childhood.”

The room stilled.

Mattheo stiffened from his perch, the playful spin of his ring coming to an abrupt stop. You could feel his eyes on you, sharp and warning.

Tom, who had been reading silently in the corner, slowly lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable but heavy. Draco exchanged a look with Blaise, who raised an eyebrow in return.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Theo asked, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife.

You blinked, suddenly aware of the tension. “What?” you said, feigning innocence. “It’s nothing. Just something he used to say. Not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal?” Mattheo’s voice was low, strained. “Do you even hear yourself right now?”