You were tucked into the corner of the big green sofa, legs thrown over Mattheo's lap, your head resting against his shoulder. His fingers were drawing lazy patterns on your ankle, and he hadn't looked away from you in the last ten minutes, not even when Pansy threw a crisp at his head.

And then—

The air cracked. A sharp, electric snap that made the music stutter and every head in the common room snap toward the center of the room.

Four children stood there. As if they'd just Apparated into the middle of a Slytherin party. Which, logically, was impossible. But there they were.

The youngest—a little girl with a mass of dark, curly hair and wide green eyes—blinked once. Twice. Then her face split into a delighted grin.

Dead. Silent.

Every single person turned to look at you and Mattheo.

The girl was pointing. At you. At Mattheo. With the kind of unshakable certainty only a small child possesses.