There was always something — the soft tick of a clock on Madam Pomfrey’s desk, the low hum of a cauldron simmering with some potion or another, the occasional groan from a patient tucked behind drawn curtains. It was a space that existed outside of Hogwarts' usual chaos. A bubble of fluorescent light and antiseptic and enforced stillness.

You’d always liked that about it.

Tonight, the stillness felt different.

Theo Nott lay sprawled across the bed near the window, one arm thrown dramatically over his eyes, his sandy hair a mess against the pillow. A bludger had caught him square in the temple during the Hufflepuff match — ugly bruise spreading across his cheekbone, a mild concussion, a strict order from Madam Pomfrey to stay put for the entire weekend.

He’d complained about it for exactly thirty seconds before falling asleep mid-sentence.

And beside him, slouched in a visitors’ chair with his long legs stretched out and ankles crossed, was Mattheo Riddle.

He wasn’t sleeping.

He was watching you.

You felt it before you saw it — that strange prickle at the back of your neck, the kind of awareness that came from being stared at for longer than a second. You’d been rearranging a tray of potion vials, your back half-turned to the beds, and when you finally glanced over your shoulder —

He was looking at you.

Not through you. Not past you. Not with that distracted, already-leaving expression he always wore after you’d finished bandaging his knuckles or healing a split across his cheekbone.

Really looking.

His head was tilted slightly, chin resting on his hand, and there was something in his dark eyes that you couldn’t quite name. Not teasing. Not dismissive. Just... curious.