Mattheo was draped over an armchair in the common room, while Theodore lazily flipped through a book. Blaise and Lorenzo argued about some pointless duel.

You stepped inside, your eyes immediately finding him.

Draco.

He sat near the fire, cool and unreadable, his posture relaxed like he owned the room. He always looked like that — composed and untouchable. But you knew better.

You knew what he looked like with his guard down.

“Ugh… I hate Draco. Too much ego for a single room,” you said, loud and clear, arms crossed as you moved past him.

Theodore chuckled, barely glancing up. “And here I thought we’d get one peaceful night.”

Blaise grinned. "It wouldn't be normal if they didn't fight at least once a day."

Draco didn’t even look up. “Can you stop whining? You’re annoying.”

You scoffed. “You’d know all about annoying. You never shut up.”

He snapped his book closed with a soft thud, his eyes meeting yours. “Right. Because being around you is such a pleasure.”

Mattheo laughed under his breath. “One of you is going to hex the other into the next century.”

You rolled your eyes and dropped onto the couch. “He’s lucky I have restraint.”

But your voice was distant now, even to your own ears. Because beneath the sharpness of the moment, you still felt it — the ghost of his touch on your skin, the way his breath had caught in his throat the night before as he pulled you against him.

You still remembered how his sheets had tangled around your legs, how his fingers had traced slow lines across your back in the quiet dark. How his voice — the same one calling you annoying now — had whispered your name like it meant everything.

Under the couch cushion, your fingers reached down, brushing against his.

He met the touch, barely moving, but you felt it. A silent promise. A reminder.

Draco didn’t look your way again. He didn’t need to. Because everything that mattered had already been said in the silence between you.

And no one else had a clue.