The words cut through the low murmur of the common room like a blade. A few heads turn—Theo Nott, lounging in an armchair with a book he isn't reading. Draco, paused mid-step near the stairs. Blaise, leaning against the mantle, watching with sharp, quiet interest.

He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. The fire crackles in the silence that follows, and Mattheo's hands flex at his sides—controlled, deliberate, like he's holding himself back from something.

Mattheo's jaw tightens. For a long moment, he doesn't answer. His eyes sweep the room—checking corners, shadows, faces—as if he can will the truth out of the air itself.

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. Mattheo's gaze snaps to Theo, and for a second—just one—something flickers across his face. Something raw. Something almost like fear.

Mattheo turns just enough to look over his shoulder. The firelight carves shadows into his face, making him look older. Sharper.