His gaze wasn’t on his parchment. It was angled toward the other side of the room, where Y/n was curled in a window seat, a textbook open but forgotten in her lap as she stared out at the dark water. The greenish light from the lake made her look pale, tired.

Mattheo watched the way Draco didn’t put the periodical down, didn’t get up, didn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see how the light’s gone out of her. Or he does, and he just doesn’t care enough to ask. The thought was a hot, sharp thing in his chest.

Theo Nott, silent in a high-backed chair by the bookcase, just watched. His eyes flicked from Draco, to Mattheo, to Y/n by the window. He said nothing.

Mattheo stood, his movement deliberately casual. He didn’t look at Draco. He didn’t look at Pansy or Blaise. His path took him past the window seat, close enough that his shadow fell across Y/n’s book.