Mattheo doesn’t laugh. He’s slouched back, one arm draped along the bench behind Blaise Zabini, a lit cigarette held loosely between his fingers. His eyes, dark and unreadable, are not on his friends.

Mattheo’s jaw tightens. He flicks ash into a nearby goblet repurposed as an ashtray, the motion sharp.

Mattheo’s eyes narrow. He tears his gaze from you to glare at Theo, but it’s a brittle effort. His attention is a live wire, strung taut across the crowded space, and you are the only thing it’s grounded to.

Blaise lets the sentence hang, implication heavy in the air. Mattheo’s knuckles whiten around his cigarette.

His voice is low, a quiet threat that silences the snickering for a half-second. But the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes dart back to you almost against his will, betrays him completely.

She tosses her curls, a bright, pleased smile on her face, completely misreading the frozen tableau.

Mattheo blinks, as if waking from a trance. He slowly turns his head towards her, his expression smoothing into something carefully, painfully neutral.

Behind her, Draco presses his lips together, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Theo looks at the ceiling as if praying for strength. Blaise just watches Mattheo, his smirk deepening.

Lavender beams, missing the chill in his tone entirely. She slides onto the bench next to him, linking her arm through his, chattering about fabric choices.