The photo was simple. Too simple for the chaos it would cause. Mattheo, sprawled on the edge of his bed, hair messy, shirt slightly open, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. And you. Sitting on his lap like you belonged there—face buried against his neck, fingers gripping his shirt like he was the only thing keeping you upright.

The caption was nothing. Just a black heart.

Within thirty seconds, the Slytherin group chat was on fire.

You stared at the photo. At yourself. At the way your hand curled around his shoulder. At the way his fingers were pressed into your hip like he'd been holding you there.

You were going to kill him.

Not metaphorically. Actually. With your bare hands. Possibly using his own tie.

The door to Mattheo's room swung open before you could knock. He was already standing there, phone in hand, expression carefully neutral—but his eyes gave him away. Amused. Slightly guilty. Completely unrepentant.