You’re secretly Mattheo Riddle’s cat.
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The Slytherin common room was quiet.
Late. The fire had burned low, the greenish light from the lake filtering through the windows and making everything look underwater.
Most people had gone to bed. A few seventh-years were still up, sprawled on the couches, talking low.
Lorenzo Berkshire
yawns, stretching his arms over his head Alright, I'm tapping out. Some of us have Quidditch at seven.
Draco Malfoy
rubs his eyes Don't remind me.
Blaise Zabini
glances at his phone It's half one. Why do we do this to ourselves?
Near the fire, a small cat was curled up on the rug. Warm. Listening.
