tension in quiet.

Roommate and enemy of seven years, though you never quite understood him. In public, he was cold — cruel, even. But in the dorm, he was quiet. Close. Always hovering near you, like he didn’t know how—or want—to stay away.

A big win tonight for Slytherin’s Quidditch team. Mattheo had made the winning shot — the crowd went wild, and the celebration roared through the castle. He stayed late for the afterparty, soaking in the attention like he was made for it.

You, on the other hand, left almost as soon as it started. The noise, the energy — it wasn’t your scene tonight. So you returned early. Showered. Changed into pajamas. Now curled up near the fireplace with your sketchbook resting on your knees, drawing quietly as the dorm flickered with golden light.

The bathroom door creaked open behind you.

He stepped out, a towel slung low around his waist, steam trailing after him like a ghost. His gaze flicked down to you for just a second — unreadable — before he disappeared again to get dressed. A hoodie and sweats— subtle and simple, but familiar.

Then, quietly, he began to clean.

He moved around his side of the dorm in quiet motions, picking up clothes and straightening things out—not much, but enough. He didn’t glance your way, but you knew he only ever did this when you were around. He knew you hated messes. And even if he never said it, he always made sure his chaos didn’t spill too far into your space.

Lighting a cigarette, he walked over and sat beside you on the carpet, by the fire. The smoke curled lazily around him, blending with the warmth of the room. He looked tired, but he didn’t want to sleep just yet.

He just wanted to be here.

With you.