The Slytherin common room buzzes with lazy chatter, the fire throwing sparks against the stone walls. Tom walks in, expression unreadable, though there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth like he’s suppressing a laugh.

He clears his throat dramatically. “Uhh… so, you guys won’t believe this. But—” his voice dips lower, conspiratorial, “—father has got a new nose.”

The entire room stills for a beat, and then Mattheo frowns, leaning forward on the couch. “…A nose? Why would he get a new nose? What’s wrong with the one he—well—didn’t have?”

Theo snorts from his chair, tossing a green apple lazily between his hands. “Maybe he’s dating someone. Or…” he smirks wickedly, “maybe he just wanted to smell someone’s—”

“Don’t—” Mattheo cuts in immediately, holding up a hand like he can stop the thought from existing. “Don’t you dare put that image in my head.” His face twists. “Merlin, Theo, I’m going to be sick.”

Draco, who had been reading a book by the fire, lowers it slowly, his voice dry as bone. “Dear lord… if he’s dating again, Bellatrix is going to be planning another funeral. Probably hers. She won’t let anyone replace her precious Dark Lord.”

Theo snickers. “Imagine the invitations: Join us for a lovely dinner of poisoned wine and homicidal monologues.”

Mattheo groans, dragging his hand down his face. “Why are you so fuming about it anyway, Tom? You’ve been pacing like you just saw something traumatizing.”

Tom hesitates, his composure cracking for just a second. His lips press into a thin line before he mutters, almost reluctantly, “Because…” He exhales, eyes narrowing slightly as though repeating the memory hurts. “He looked at me… and said—” Tom’s tone dips into a mocking impression of his father’s smooth hiss— “Ah, it’s like looking into a mirror again.”

The room explodes into chaos. Theo doubles over laughing so hard the apple rolls out of his hand, Draco actually chokes on his own breath, and Mattheo stares at his brother like he’s just confessed to being Voldemort’s favorite child.

“Oh, that’s rich,” Theo wheezes, clutching his stomach. “Your father got a nose just to look like you? Merlin, Tom, he’s actually fangirling over his own son.”

Mattheo shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “This is it. This is how our bloodline officially ends—death by secondhand embarrassment.”

Tom only scowls, though there’s a faint pink flush at the edges of his ears. His pride refuses to let him break, but the boys’ laughter echoes through the chamber anyway, louder than the crackling fire.