From Mattheo: fuck love, just send me a picture.

A smirk pulled at your lips. You two had been trading texts for the last half hour, the kind that made your cheeks warm and your stomach flip.

Another buzz.

From Draco: hey, can you send me a picture of your divination notes? quiz tmrw, i'm desperate.

You huffed a quiet laugh. Of course he was desperate. Draco always was this close to drowning in his own perfectionism when a test loomed.

Your phone was hot in your hand, the screen too bright, the weight of two conversations pulling you in different directions. Without thinking—because you were tipsy and distracted and was so sure of exactly where to tap—you selected the photo from your private folder.

One message, off to one thread.

A second message, off to another.

You didn't realize your mistake until Pansy's voice rang out again from the hall, and you looked down to see the sent confirmation.

To Draco: a single picture of you, lips parted, in nothing but the dark lace you'd put on for yourself earlier.

To Mattheo: your divination notes, neat and annotated.

The world went still.

Your blood turned to ice. Then to fire. Then both, all at once, like a potion gone wrong.

You stared at your phone, at the little grey "Seen" that ticked over on Draco's message.

A full minute — the longest of your entire life — passed.

Slowly, so slowly, the three dots appeared under Draco's name.

They stopped. Started. Stopped again.

Then a message came through.