Most everyone had gone up to bed. Only a few figures remained, draped across the furniture in various states of exhaustion. Pansy Parkinson was painting Daphne’s nails a violent shade of purple by wandlight. Theo Nott was asleep in an armchair, a book open on his chest.

Mattheo Riddle was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the sofa where you were curled up. His head was tipped back, eyes closed, but he wasn’t sleeping. One of his hands rested on the carpet, fingers idly tracing the pattern of the rug.

You were wearing his hoodie. The black one, with the faint, frayed stitching at the cuffs. It swallowed you whole, the fabric soft and worn from use, carrying the distinct, clean scent of him—like parchment, cedar, and something faintly metallic.