Silk sheets pool around Tom’s waist as he reclines against Y/n’s headboard, one arm tucked behind his head. His chest is bare, still glistening faintly in the low light, and his dark hair is disheveled in a way that would make any other person look vulnerable. Tom just looks like he’s won something.

The room smells like them now. Like her perfume and his cologne and something else, something warmer, that lingers in the sheets.

Outside, the distant sound of the common room door opening and closing echoes through the dungeons. Someone’s still up. Mattheo, probably, stumbling in after detention with Snape.