The Slytherin common room hums with low firelight and the soft crackle of embers. Late evening, the winter term creeping in through frosted windows. Half the usual crowd is scattered across the couches — Blaise sprawled dramatically over an armchair, Theo’s head in Daphne’s lap, Astoria curled beside Draco pretending to read.

Mattheo flips Blaise off without breaking eye contact with you. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth, but his dark eyes stay fixed on yours — like he’s waiting for something. Like he already knows you’re not really here.