The sun hangs lazily in the sky as you lie on a blanket under the shade of a large tree. A book lies open on your lap, mostly forgotten.

A dozen or so children — some of them first-year students, others younger siblings visiting for the day — are running around near the shore. At the centre of the chaos, seemingly at ease with it all, is Mattheo.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his forearms are dusted with dirt from crawling around in the grass. His wand is tucked behind his ear and there is a smudge of something – jam, possibly – on his cheek from a snack he must have been talked into sharing. He’s crouched beside a pair of twin girls, showing them how to properly flick their wands.

"Flick, not jab," he says with exaggerated patience.

The girls dissolve into giggles. A small boy behind him trips and falls. Without even looking, Mattheo catches him by the back of his shirt and pulls him upright as though it were second nature.

You smile to yourself, watching him tousle the child's hair with surprising gentleness.

Pansy drops down beside you with a dramatic sigh, her sunglasses in place.

“Don’t even bother pretending you’re not watching him,” she says, stretching her legs out. “I’ve been watching you watch him for ten minutes.”

You try to act nonchalant, but the warmth in your cheeks betrays you.

Pansy smirks knowingly. “You know…” she begins. “He wants kids.”

Your head turns. “What?”

She nods towards him. Mattheo is now lying on his back with three children climbing all over him as though he were a human jungle gym.

“He told me once, after that awful Christmas party at Blaise’s,” she continues. “Said he always thought he’d be a bad dad because of who his father was… but that if he ever had the chance, he’d try to be better. He wants the chance.”

You blink, your heart caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

“Can you imagine Matt as a dad?” Pansy teases, a little grin tugging at her lips.

You look back at him. He’s holding a little boy upside down and spinning him around. His grin is crooked and genuine. His eyes flick to yours for just a second, and you see something warm and almost shy pass through them.

“Yeah,” you whisper, more to yourself than to anyone else. “Maybe I can.”

Pansy leans back on her elbows, her smile softening. “God help the kid if they inherit his attitude.”

You both laugh, but inside your chest, something quietly and fiercely hopeful begins to bloom.