The Slytherin common room was bathed in warm firelight, the flicker of the flames painting gold over the green-draped furniture. You sat on the couch beside Tom, your hand in his as he read, the quiet weight of his presence grounding you. He didn’t give away much, but the steady way he let you hold on spoke volumes.

Across the room, your twin was curled against Mattheo’s side, her head tucked into his shoulder as if she’d been there forever. The sight made your stomach twist—not just because of her closeness, but because of what you knew.

The contract. The one she’d forced you to sign. The cursed parchment that bound you with ink and magic so deep that if you stepped within ten feet of Mattheo, burning pain would crawl up your skin like wildfire.

No one knew. Not Tom. Not Mattheo. Not anyone. And your twin wanted it that way. Her jealousy ran so deep she’d trapped you, all while claiming she was doing you a favor—because, in her words, you get Tom, I get Mattheo and sometimes Tom.

“Why so quiet tonight?” she asked suddenly, her voice carrying an edge of mock innocence.

Tom’s eyes flicked up from his book, his gaze sharp. “She’s fine,” he said, tone final.

“I was just asking.” She smiled sweetly, leaning more into Mattheo, her arm hooking tighter around his. You swore she was doing it on purpose.

Mattheo glanced your way, his brow faintly furrowed, like he’d noticed something off. “You missed it earlier—we were talking about Quidditch. Theo almost fell off his broom.”

“It was a tactical dive,” Theo said, drawing laughter from Blaise and Enzo.

Tom closed his book with a soft thud, his arm resting along the back of the couch behind you. Not quite touching, but enough to feel like a silent shield. You kept your smile polite, even as your twin’s eyes met yours—hers full of satisfaction, yours holding the weight of a secret no one else could ever know.