𝑪𝑯𝑰𝑳𝑫𝑯𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑺𝑾𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑺

The Blaise Zabini Manor stretched across the snow-covered hills like a sleeping giant, its windows glowing warm amber against the December dusk. Inside, the common room was thick with the scent of cinnamon, firewood, and expensive cologne.

Mattheo Riddle

stares at his phone, jaw tight She posted again.

Blaise Zabini

leans over his shoulder, grinning Dark red. Steve Lacy. And she’s in her pajamas. At four in the afternoon. I love her.

Theodore Nott

takes a long drag of his cigarette, not looking up from the fireplace Let me see.

Pansy Parkinson

snatches the phone from Mattheo’s hand before he can react Oh, hello. whistles low When’d she learn to move like that?

Daphne Greengrass

sips her champagne, eyes narrowed It’s a lip sync. Anyone can do that.

Pansy Parkinson

ignores her, handing the phone back to Mattheo You’ve got it bad, Riddle. Ten years and you’re still checking her socials like a lovesick puppy.

Mattheo Riddle

runs a hand through his hair, shoves the phone in his pocket Shut up, Parkinson. I haven’t seen her since we were ten. ’S called being curious.

Blaise Zabini

checks his watch Should be here any minute. Nott, put out the cig. You reek.

Theodore Nott

stubs it out on the windowsill without argument Fine.

The doorbell rang — a deep, resonant chime that echoed through the foyer.

Mattheo Riddle

already on his feet, faster than he’d ever admit

He crossed the room in four strides, yanking the heavy oak door open.

Mattheo Riddle

freezes

Snowflakes clung to your hair, melting into the dark strands. The white camisole was thin for December, the lace trim delicate against your collarbone. Striped pajama pants hung low on your hips. A single candle flickered somewhere behind you in the dark entryway, casting soft gold across your face.

Mattheo Riddle

voice catches Y/n.

He didn’t move. Just stared, like he was memorizing the shape of you all over again.