A fire crackled in the great hearth, casting long shadows across the emerald and silver furnishings. Someone had passed out on the sofa, face down, one arm dangling off the edge. Enzo Berkshire was laughing at something Draco said, both of them half-slouched in armchairs. Pansy was sprawled across Daphne’s lap, nowhere near asleep, still talking a mile a minute about someone from Ravenclaw.

You were still on the edge of it all, the noise washing over you like water. Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

Not your phone.

His phone.

Mattheo Riddle’s phone, because you’d grabbed the wrong one. You remembered the moment you’d done it: the arm of the couch, a dark phone face-up, the frantic rush to get upstairs before someone noticed you were still sober enough to function. You hadn’t looked.

You looked now.

The lock screen was a picture of mattheo from a party—probably the most recent one, judging by the plastic cup in his hand and the tilt of his head. He wasn’t smiling, not really, but there was something almost soft in his expression. His hair was messier than usual, curling against his forehead. He looked like someone who didn’t expect to be photographed.

The phone buzzed again.

Theo: you still awake

Theo: tell me you didn’t get off without me

Theo: when are trouser snake duties over

You stared at the screen. The thought of answering as Mattheo was enough to make your stomach twist.

Then your own phone—miraculously still in your other pocket—buzzed. A single message from an unknown number.

Unknown: I think you have my phone.

Unknown: Enjoying my lock screen?

The fire popped. Somewhere behind you, Pansy’s laugh cut through the low hum of the room. No one was looking at you.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.