Draco's bent over a roll of parchment at the table, quill scratching. Pansy's perched on the arm of his chair, one hand drumming painted nails against her knee while the other holds a silver vape. Blaise is sprawled across the longest sofa, a copy of Quidditch Through the Ages balanced on his chest, eyes half-closed.

Daphne's tucked into the corner of the green armchair, legs folded, tracing patterns on her knee as she watches the fire.

But the quietest corner belongs to Mattheo.

He's not in his usual spot—sprawled beside you, arm thrown over the back of the sofa, joking with Theo. Instead, he's perched on the stone ledge of the far window, one knee drawn up, his dark curls falling forward as he stares out into the blackness beyond the glass. The orange glow from the fire doesn't reach his face. His thumb rubs absently at the bracelet on his wrist—yours, matching, the braided cord worn soft.

He hasn't said a word in nearly an hour.

Theo, leaning against the mantelpiece with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, catches your eye. He nods toward Mattheo, one brow raised in silent question.