Everything in the underground dormitory wing was quiet. Still. The sort of hush that settled between the end of dawn and the first sounds of students getting up for breakfast.

Inside one of the private dormitories, the curtains were still drawn. The only movement was a slow, steady rise and fall of the duvet.

And then a sound. A low, groggy sort of mumble. Not from the bed’s owner. From the other side of the mattress. The side that definitely should not have had anyone in it.

The person currently tangled in the sheets shifted, dark curls falling across his forehead, his arm thrown carelessly across the small space between one body and another. His breathing was deep. Peaceful. Utterly, entirely asleep.

The green trim of the duvet had been kicked halfway onto the floor during the night. A Slytherin tie hung loosely from the bedpost. A pair of boots, knocked over by the door, sat exactly where they’d been discarded.

The body beside you stirred again. Mattheo Riddle. Asleep. In your bed. In your dormitory. Snoring very faintly, one hand twitching against the pillow.

He looked exhausted even in sleep—the dark circles beneath his eyes still visible against his pale skin. But his face was relaxed in a way it almost never was during daylight hours. No scowl. No smugness. Just calm.

And from the way his arm had landed, he didn’t seem to be planning on moving anytime soon.