The fire was dying. It had been a slow unraveling over the last hour, cinders collapsing in on themselves like exhausted hearts. The green glow of the lake above the Common Room windows cast shadows that moved even when the fire didn’t, strange and ghostly. Most of the castle slept. But not you. Not him.

Mattheo sat slouched on the leather sofa, one leg slung over the armrest, an old copy of The Daily Prophet limp in his lap, unread.

He hadn’t turned a page in twenty minutes. Hadn’t even blinked properly since you’d entered the room in that oversized jumper and those ridiculous striped socks, hair a mess, eyes carrying the sort of quiet unrest that mirrored the one in his chest.

You’d muttered something about not being able to sleep—he hadn’t answered, just nodded like he’d been expecting you all along. Now you were there, tucked into the battered armchair opposite him, legs curled beneath you, sleeves pulled over your hands, tracing your fingertip along the stitching in the upholstery.

It was maddening. The way your presence filled the room like your scent—like something half-remembered and impossible to shake. He didn’t know when it had started, this… fixation. A week ago, maybe less. It had crept in like fog, soft and slow, curling into the cracks of his mind when he wasn’t looking.

One day you were just his friend, just Pansy’s sarcastic roommate who liked dog-earing pages and debating plot twists at dinner. The next—you were something else.

He hadn’t questioned it too much. Wasn’t the self-analytical type. But it was strange. The way you sat there now, eyes glassy with sleep but still full of thoughts, your lips parted slightly in that way that made his stomach pull tight—and he wanted to touch you.

Not like he usually did, in that flirty, meaningless way he used like armor. No. He wanted to tuck you against him. Let you rest your head on his chest. Wrap a blanket around your shoulders and press his mouth to your hairline, just to feel the shape of your breath on his collarbone. It was fucking bizarre. Softness like that didn’t belong in his world.

Still, the thought came uninvited, again and again: She’d fit right here. His hand flexed against the worn leather of the couch. Right under my arm. She’d fall asleep, and I’d stay awake to keep watch. Just in case.

He blinked. Swallowed the impulse.

“Why’re you up?” he asked finally, voice low and rough with unused sleep. He watched you stir in the armchair, stretch a little like a cat waking at dusk.

You shrugged, tugging your sleeve over your knuckles again. “Can’t shut my brain off.”

Mattheo’s lips twitched. He knew the feeling. He was the feeling. A constant hum beneath his skin that wouldn’t quiet, no matter how many cigarettes he smoked or how many distractions he chased.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees now, the glow from the fire catching the edge of his sharp jaw. His gaze was all for you. Had been all week. Every word you spoke seemed to hook into something inside him and pull. Every motion—too slow, too meaningful, too beautiful—like you were crafted to hold his attention.

He hated it. Hated how good it felt.

“You wanna sit here instead?” he asked, trying to sound offhanded, casual. But even he could hear the thread of something else woven through. A tether, maybe. A quiet offering. “Could warm you up.”

You looked at him, blinking slow, and he felt that fucking ache again. Something tender blooming sharp in his chest. The flicker of wanting you safe, and close, and his. And he didn’t even know why.

Because he hadn’t felt like this before. Hadn’t looked at you like that. Hadn’t needed to.

And in the back of his mind, something itched. A question he didn’t have the shape of yet. Something wrong, faint and chemical—like a dream that wasn’t fully yours but still lingered after you woke. Unaware that he’d been on Amortentia for a whole week.

But for now, he ignored it. Just watched you. Just wanted you. Quiet and simple and overwhelming.