The greenish light from the lake filtered through the tall windows, casting shifting, watery patterns across the low leather sofas and the dark stone floor. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, the only real sound aside from the occasional rustle of a page from a lone fifth-year studying in the far corner.

You’d just stepped through the stone archway, the damp chill of the dungeon halls still clinging to your robes, when you felt it.

The weight of a stare, heavy and deliberate, pinning you in place before you’d taken three steps into the room.

He took a slow drag, the tip glowing bright in the dim light, his eyes never leaving you. A smirk played on his lips, lazy and knowing.

Across the room, Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini were hunched over a wizard’s chessboard. Theo Nott was slouched in an armchair, a book open but ignored on his lap. None of them looked up. This was a familiar scene.

Mattheo pushed off the wall, taking one measured step forward. The distance between you didn’t feel like fifteen feet. It felt like inches.