The potion room still smelled like smoke and burnt lacewing flies. Broken glass glittered under the torchlight, and the stone floor was slick with spilled ingredients that probably weren’t meant to touch human skin.

Mattheo stood by the overturned cauldron, sleeves rolled up, wand in hand, pretending to help, though he hadn’t moved in five minutes. “Can’t believe we’re cleaning up after a bunch of first-years,” he muttered, flicking a bit of ash from his shirt. “They blow up one cauldron and somehow we’re the problem.”

You crouched down beside a shattered vial, picking up the pieces carefully. “Maybe if you hadn’t mouthed off to Snape, we wouldn’t be here either.”

He smirked, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, come on. You didn’t mind that part.”

You didn’t answer, not when he was watching you like that, a little too amused, a little too aware of what his words did to the air between you. His smirk softened, though, when a bit of the broken glass nicked your finger. Without thinking, he took your hand, his calloused thumb brushing over the cut before he reached for a cloth.

“Should’ve used your wand,” he said quietly, the teasing gone.

You were close enough to see it now — the faint scar on his jaw, the one you’d never asked about, the storm always sitting behind his eyes.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Just the dripping of potion residue from the ceiling, the dim hum of the castle beyond the door.