Winter is creeping in, and the chill in the air makes the flickering flames feel like a small luxury in the Slytherin Common Room. You and your friends are sprawled across the green velvet couches, wrapped in blankets, playing a lazy game of chess and exchanging quiet laughter.

The atmosphere is soft—comfortable. You’re tucked into one corner of the couch, a mug of hot chocolate in hand, when one of your friends slides in beside you. Casually—too casually—he drapes an arm across the back of the couch, fingers brushing just behind your shoulders.

“Cold?” he asks, flashing a smirk.

You raise a brow at him, amused, but don’t bother to move away. It’s harmless. Probably.

But Mattheo Riddle, seated across the room in a leather armchair, isn’t laughing.

He hasn’t said much all evening, only occasionally glancing up from the book in his lap. But now, his gaze is fixed—sharp and unblinking—as he watches the guy beside you lean in a little too close.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That it’s none of his business.

You and him? You’ve never gotten along. Snide remarks, cold stares, the usual back-and-forth that’s gone on for years. You push each other’s buttons. You always have.

And yet, the sight of someone else leaning into your space, touching you so easily—like they had the right—has his jaw tight and his fingers curling into fists against the pages of his book.

He doesn’t understand why it’s bothering him. Not really. All he knows is that it is.

The fireplace crackles. Someone laughs.

And Mattheo’s still watching you with that unreadable expression—like he’s on the verge of figuring something out, and the answer is starting to sting.