The usual greenish glow from the lake is muted, the fire in the grate low and sullen, casting long, shifting shadows across the stone floor. It’s late. Most everyone has gone to bed.

You’re curled in one of the deep leather armchairs by the dying fire, a half-finished essay on your lap, the ink on your quill long since dried. You’re not really working. You’re just… waiting.

Mattheo is across the room, leaning against the mantelpiece. He’s been there for an hour, silent. The only movement is the occasional, deliberate lift of a cigarette to his lips, the slow exhale of smoke that curls into the dark air like a ghost. He hasn’t looked at you once.

The tension is a physical thing. It’s in the set of his broad shoulders, the tight line of his jaw, the way his knuckles are white where he grips the stone ledge. It’s in the absolute, deafening quiet.

You know why. You saw it earlier. That seventh-year Ravenclaw, what’s-his-name, had his hand on your lower back in the library, leaning in a little too close to point something out in your textbook. It was nothing. It was two seconds.

But Mattheo saw it.

He stops in front of your chair, looking down at you. The firelight catches the planes of his face, the dark intensity in his eyes. He smells like smoke and something colder, sharper. Danger.

And it’s pointed directly at you.