The Slytherin common room was nearly empty, the fire casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. Rain pattered softly against the windows, and the usual hum of conversation had long since died out.

Mattheo was stretched across the couch, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the air. His usual smirk was absent tonight, replaced by something unreadable.

“You’re staring.” His voice was low, rough.

You scoffed, shifting in your chair. “You wish.”

But he didn’t bite back with some cocky remark. Instead, he turned his gaze to the fire, jaw clenched. After a moment, he exhaled, voice quieter.

“You ever think about just… leaving?”

You blinked. “Leaving?”

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair, eyes still fixed on the flames. “Getting away from all this—Hogwarts, the expectations, the whole ‘Riddle’ thing.” He let out a humorless laugh. “Bet you never think about that.”

You hesitated before standing and crossing the room. He didn’t move as you sank onto the couch beside him.

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Mattheo.”

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to argue, but then—he sighed. Leaning his head back against the couch, he whispered,

“Maybe I’m just tired of being my father’s son.”

The words were barely audible, yet they weighed more than any spell.

Without thinking, you reached over, fingers grazing his in the dim light.

He didn’t pull away.