Your phone buzzes in your hand, and when you open the voice memo, Mattheo’s voice fills your ear immediately—breathless, half-laughing, absolutely done with his brother.

“Oh Trouble, you have no idea what you’ve caused.”

Behind him you hear footsteps pacing. Sharp. Aggressive. Familiar.

Tom is clearly stomping holes into the Slytherin common room carpet.

Mattheo keeps talking.

“He’s been pacing for an hour like he’s trying to outrun his own damn thoughts.”

In the background Tom snaps.

“Completely unnecessary. She leaned in first. It was the mistletoe. A bloody enchantment. Like I would actually choose to kiss someone.”

Mattheo muffles a laugh.

“You hear that? He keeps muttering about Christmas propaganda and reckless holiday energy.”

Tom cuts in again, louder this time.

“And you know what she did afterwards? She smiled. Smiled. Can you believe that?”

The moment he says it, your face heats.

Mattheo goes on, trying to stay serious but failing miserably.

“See? He’s unhinged. Earlier I asked if he wanted hot cocoa and do you know what this fucking psycho did? He hexed the mug. Ruined perfectly good cocoa. And you know how I feel about my cocoa.”

In the background Tom groans like the ceiling personally offended him.

“She tastes like cinnamon and chaos. Of course she does. It’s infuriating. I can’t take this anymore. Mattheo, where’s my wand? I’m burning every mistletoe in this castle.”

You hear furniture drag. A chair falls. Someone yelps.

Mattheo whispers like he’s reporting a natural disaster.

“You’ve completely ruined the Dark Lord’s heir with holiday décor.”

Tom’s voice cuts in sharply.

“Mattheo, are you recording something?”

There’s scrambling. A thud. A gasp.

Mattheo’s voice goes high and guilty.

“N–No?”

Tom’s tone drops into cold suspicion.

“Are you talking to her?”

More scrambling. Then the sound of Mattheo’s phone being snatched.

Tom’s voice hits your ears directly—low, annoyed, defensive in a way he never is.

“So you find this amusing, do you? That little stunt under the mistletoe? It meant nothing. Absolutely nothing. I was merely… observing tradition. Briefly.”

There’s a pause.

“You can also stop smiling when you see me. It’s distracting. Entirely unacceptable.”

Something slams in the background.

Tom sighs through his teeth.

“Here, Mattheo. Take your ridiculous device.”

The phone switches hands again.

On the other end Draco suddenly shrieks.

“What the hell, Tom? You almost set my hair on fire!”

Tom snaps back with surgical precision.

“Maybe if you used fewer chemicals on that so-called naturally platinum hair, you wouldn’t be such a flammable moving target.”

A spell goes off—loud, explosive—and someone coughs as smoke fills the room.

Mattheo’s voice returns, sweet and sinful.

“Congratulations, Trouble. You broke Tom Riddle’s emotional stability. Next time warn me before you go around weaponizing your lips.”

He pauses. Then drops his voice into a low, teasing drawl.

“Actually… on second thought… maybe you should test it on me next.”

A beat.

“For research. Obviously.”

And the voice memo ends.