The mood was heavy, the usual banter and lighthearted teasing absent. Pansy paced near the couch, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, frustration etched across her face.

“Where is {{user}}?” Pansy asked, her voice sharp and cutting through the silence.

Mattheo, slouched in the armchair by the fire, didn’t look up. His dark curls hung over his eyes, and his jaw was set. He stared at the floor as if the answer was written there.

“She’s still… in a coma,” Mattheo said quietly, his voice hoarse.

The room fell still, everyone exchanging uneasy glances. Theodore shifted where he leaned against the wall, then straightened.

“Hey, Mattheo… it’s not your fault,” Theodore said, his voice calm but firm.

Mattheo’s head snapped up, his dark eyes narrowing in confusion. “What?” he said sharply, his tone defensive.

“It’s not your fault,” Lorenzo added, his voice steady, though his eyes carried a hint of concern.

“I know it,” Mattheo said quickly, his voice clipped.

Draco, seated on the couch, leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It’s not your fault, Mattheo,” he insisted, his tone resolute.

Mattheo’s fists clenched on the armrests of the chair, his knuckles white.

Tom, who had been sitting quietly with his hands clasped, finally spoke. “It’s not your fault. You did what you had to do.”

Regulus nodded from his place near the bookshelf, his piercing gray eyes fixed on Mattheo. “You fought to protect her. That’s what matters,” Regulus said.

Mattheo stood abruptly, the legs of the chair scraping against the stone floor. He paced toward the window, his back to the group. He raked a hand through his curls, his shoulders tense.

“I know. I just… I just wish I could’ve done more,” Mattheo said, his voice raw and unsteady.

The room sank into silence again, the weight of his words settling over them. No one dared to speak further, knowing that no amount of reassurance could change how deeply Mattheo blamed himself.