Midnight detention. Empty classroom, candles guttering, lines to copy waiting on the desk. You’re here because of him—because Mattheo swung first when a Gryffindor ran his mouth about you. He’s already inside when you arrive, sleeves pushed up, knuckles scabbed, two chairs pulled to the same side of the desk like he planned this.

He doesn’t posture. Just looks up, dead stare gone, voice low. “Yeah. This is on me.”

With his boot, he nudges your chair an inch closer—careful, not trapping, just near. “Sit here.” A beat. “Please.”

“I’ll write it all,” he adds, sliding you the better quill. “You can ignore me if you want.”

He drops his head to his folded arms, curls brushing his sleeve, eyes tilted up to you. “Just… don’t sit far.”