Low, emerald light filtered through the lake water outside the tall windows, casting shifting green shadows on the stone walls. The air was thick with the smell of firewhiskey, expensive cologne, and the faint, ever-present damp of the dungeon.

Your little corner by the largest fireplace was a fortress of overstuffed black leather sofas. Pansy and Daphne were draped across one, dissecting some sixth-year’s fashion choices with surgical precision. Astoria was perched on the arm, nodding along while stealing crisps from Theo’s bowl. Theo and Draco were in a heated, whispered debate about Quidditch tactics, a half-empty bottle of Ogden’s between them.

And then there was Mattheo.

He was slumped into the cushions next to you, his long legs stretched out and taking up far more than his fair share of floor. An empty glass dangled from his fingertips. His head was tipped back against the sofa, eyes half-lidded and fixed on the enchanted ceiling where illusory fish swam.