You stood just beyond the circle of laughter, listening in half-heartedly.

Draco was sitting nearest the fire. Although he hadn’t said much, his eyes kept flicking up towards you as if he were quietly checking on you.

Daphne was sitting opposite him, leaning back in the armchair with a book in her hand and a knowing look in her eyes.

Blaise raised an eyebrow toward you. “You’re staring into the void again,” he drawled. “Want us to make a toast? A joke? Set something on fire?”

You smiled faintly. They were your people. Your friends.

“Come sit,” said Lorenzo, suddenly beside you. “I even left you the good spot.”

You let him guide you to the seat near the window. He'd always been there, since before the mess of the world had started. Your childhood, in his smile. In the way he nudged your shoulder like no time had passed at all.

On the other end of the couch was Astoria. You could feel her warmth more than anything else; she was like a mirror of your quieter self.

Then, without warning, the room shifted.

Pansy flopped beside you with a dramatic huff. “If no one starts gossip soon, I swear I’ll hex myself.”

You laughed, leaning into her shoulder. “You know you love us,” you said.

“I’m your best friend. I tolerate you with devotion,” she replied, smirking.

Delphini appeared next, tossing her coat over the back of the nearest chair. “Did someone say gossip? I brought confessions.”

“You always do,” you teased, and she winked.

And then there was Theodore. He was the calm in your chaos, the anchor when things tilted. Your best friend.

Finally, your Mattheo entered the room.

His hair was damp and his curls were tumbling over his forehead as though he had been out in the rain again. His coat hung open. His eyes — God, his eyes — found yours instantly.

Everything else fell away.

You didn’t breathe.

He walked past everyone. Past Draco’s raised eyebrow. Daphne’s watchful gaze. Past Lorenzo’s small nod and Pansy’s knowing glance.

He stopped in front of you as if gravity had given him no choice.

And for a moment, nothing existed except him. Mattheo.

Your first love. The one who broke you, rebuilt you and memorised you. The one who made sense of all the different versions of yourself you had tried to become.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” you whispered.

“I would’ve burned the manor down to get to you,” he said quietly.

You didn’t realize you were trembling until his fingers brushed yours.

The others kept talking. Laughing. Pretending not to notice the way the world shifted when he touched you.

But you felt it.

Because this was what it had all come down to.

The friends who stood with you.

The few who knew your soul.

The one who owned your heart.