The fire crackled. Cards abandoned on the table. Bottles clinking somewhere in the corner. The boys scattered across their usual sofas, watching Mattheo turn the small velvet box over in his hands like it might bite.

He flipped the lid. The chocolates sat perfectly nestled inside—dark, expensive. Not from Honeydukes. And nestled in the silk lining, a slip of paper with a single number written in neat cursive.

He typed something. Paused. His thumb hovered over the screen.

The common room went quiet. Rain streaked the dark windows. Mattheo Riddle pressed send.