The fire in the Slytherin common room had burned low, its reflection flickering across the black lake outside the windows. Mattheo lounged back in the armchair, one leg draped lazily over the other, a half-smile still tugging at his lips from whatever story he’d just finished telling — something about a Ravenclaw who’d accidentally hexed their own hair off during Potions.

The laughter between you had faded into a steady, quiet rhythm. The only sound left was the occasional crackle of fire and the faint shuffle of cards from a group across the room.

Mattheo didn’t look at you directly, not yet. He was watching the flames instead, expression unreadable, though there was a slight tension to his jaw that gave him away. He’d heard things, whispers that floated through corridors too confidently to be dismissed, your name tangled in them like a hook. None of it made sense, and honestly, he didn’t care much for gossip. You’d always come to him if something mattered. You always had.

Still, he wasn’t stupid.

He tilted his head slightly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye — patient and quiet, giving you that familiar space he always did when he thought you had something to say. If you wanted to talk, he’d be there. If not, he’d let it die right here between the low firelight and the shadows of the common room.