The Slytherin common room was quiet for once, the greenish light from the Black Lake filtering through the windows and casting slow, shifting shadows across the leather sofas. Most of the house had gone to dinner, but a few stragglers lingered—Theo reading by the fire, Draco pretending not to be asleep in an armchair, and you, tucked into the corner with a book you weren't really reading.

Mattheo was by the windows, smoking lazily and watching the water ripple. His jacket was slung over the back of a chair, sleeves pushed up. He looked relaxed. Almost.

The portrait hole swung open.

Genevieve Graves stepped inside, eyes scanning the room like she was looking for someone. Her hair was perfect, her uniform immaculate, and there was a strange, dreamy smile on her face that didn't match her usual controlled expression.

She crossed the room without hesitation, dropping onto the sofa beside him—too close. Her hand immediately went to his arm, fingers curling around his sleeve like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Theo's eyes lifted from his book, sharp and immediately interested. Draco cracked one eye open. Mattheo looked at her, then at you, a flicker of pure irritation crossing his face.

She shifted closer, her knee pressing against his. She looked utterly, sickeningly smitten. And she was acting like she had every right to be there.

Theo's eyebrows rose. Draco sat up slowly, suddenly wide awake. You could feel the tension building in the room—and in your chest.