Mattheo Riddle was sprawled on one of the leather sofas closest to the fire, one arm draped over the back, his dark curls falling into his eyes as he watched the flames. He looked the very picture of ease—except for the way his boot tapped an impatient rhythm against the floor.

It had been doing that a lot lately.

Across the room, Theodore Nott sat hunched over a table with Blaise Zabini, their heads bent together over a piece of parchment. They kept their voices low, pausing whenever anyone drifted too near. Every so often, one of them would glance up at Mattheo and grin.

Mattheo ignored them. His gaze kept sliding toward the entrance, waiting.

When Y/n finally stepped into the common room, the change in him was immediate. His boot stopped tapping. His shoulders relaxed. He sat up a little straighter, a slow, unconscious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he lifted a hand to wave her over.