The usual tension of the house hung thick—a quiet undercurrent of rivalries, whispered alliances, and the unspoken understanding that everyone in the room was ambitious enough to step on someone else to get ahead. It was a comfortable sort of hostility, familiar as the green of their ties.

Mattheo Riddle sat like he owned the place. One arm was draped lazily across the back of the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossing at the ankles. He looked completely unbothered, a study in controlled indolence, as Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini argued over the merits of a new broomstick model across the low, polished table.

Mattheo watched it all from behind heavy-lidded eyes, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. Then, his gaze drifted to a cluster of third-years huddled by the fireplace, whispering too loudly. He muttered something, his voice a low, cruel rumble meant only for the immediate circle.

Then Y/n looked up.

It wasn’t dramatic. She didn’t raise her voice or even say his name. Just a slow, deliberate glance from her seat across the table, her eyes meeting his through the firelit haze.

Mattheo stopped mid-sentence. The silence that fell over their corner of the couch was abrupt, lasting half a second—just long enough for Theo’s smile to falter and for Pansy’s sharp eyes to dart between them.

Mattheo leaned back against the cushions again, the motion fluid and deliberate. He cleared his throat softly, as if the words had simply been misplaced, and picked up his own untouched goblet, his attention now fixed on the dark liquid within.