There is a particular hour in Slytherin’s common room when the fire burns low, the last of the younger students have been chased off to bed, and the only people left are the ones who have no particular interest in sleeping. It was that hour now. The greenish light from the lake pressed against the windows, and somewhere above, the castle settled into its usual midnight creaking.

Y/N sat in the corner of one of the leather sofas, a textbook open on their lap, though they hadn’t turned a page in some time. Across the room, Mattheo Riddle was draped in an armchair near the fire, one leg hooked over the armrest, a quill spinning idly between his fingers.

They had been avoiding looking at each other for the better part of an hour. Not with any real success.

Theodore Nott, stretched out on the opposite end of Y/N’s sofa, noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.

Mattheo’s quill stopped spinning.

He was. Just slowly. Just often enough to be undeniable.