The air in the Slytherin common room was tense but lazy — the fire crackled low, shadows flickering against emerald glass. Mattheo let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck before finally looking over at his older brother.

“Look, Tom, I know we don’t always see eye to eye but—”

Tom didn’t even glance up from the book in his hand. His lips curved just slightly, the faintest smirk. “Probably because you’re too short to do so.”

Theo choked on his drink. Draco’s head snapped up, eyes wide with poorly hidden amusement. Marvolo leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, clearly bracing for what was coming next.

Mattheo’s eyes darkened. “Mom should’ve swallowed you.”

The room went dead silent.

Draco looked between them like he was watching a cursed duel about to start. Theo muttered under his breath, “Well… that escalated.”

Tom finally lifted his gaze, calm as ever, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Careful, little brother,” he said softly, shutting his book with a sharp thud. “You wouldn’t want to start a war you can’t finish.”

Marvolo sighed, rubbing his temple. “Merlin save me from dramatic brothers.”

Theo snorted. “You’re a Riddle. Drama’s in your blood.”

Draco leaned forward with a grin. “And apparently, so is trauma.”

That earned a few stifled laughs — even from Mattheo, though his glare stayed fixed on Tom, who only smirked wider, entirely too pleased with himself.