Lorenzo’s voice was a lazy drawl. He gestured with his chin toward the bottle of firewhisky resting near Theodore Nott’s knee.

Theo didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the distant silhouette of the Forbidden Forest. But he nudged the bottle with his foot, sending it scraping across the stone toward Lorenzo.

Draco leaned back on his elbows, the collar of his school shirt undone, sleeves meticulously buttoned at his wrists despite the hour and the informality.

Mattheo’s smile was a sharp, white flash in the dark. He held a hand-rolled cigarette pinched between his fingers, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye. His other hand rested casually on his knee, the cuff of his shirt pulled taut.

Mattheo turned his head, the glow of his cigarette illuminating the sharp angle of his cheekbone.