The Slytherin common room was unusually warm that evening, the greenish glow of the lake outside casting shifting patterns across the stone floor. A fire crackled in the hearth, and the low murmur of students unwinding after classes filled the space.

Y/n was curled at the other end of the sofa, a textbook open on her lap, but her eyes had already lifted. Astoria Greengrass paused by the fire, looking over with a little smile.

A beat of silence. Y/n’s fingers tightened on the edge of her book. The words didn’t seem to make sense at first — because Mattheo had spent the last week telling her he didn’t care about the ball, that it was all ridiculous, that he wasn’t going to bother.

Across the room, a group of boys by the fire had gone very still. Theodore Nott looked up from the chessboard, his gaze flicking from Mattheo to Y/n. Lorenzo Berkshire and Blaise Zabini exchanged a look. Draco Malfoy’s eyebrows rose slowly.

The common room seemed to hold its breath. Then, all at once, the boys by the fire erupted into quiet, gleeful murmurs — not for Mattheo. For Y/n. Because now, for the first time in ages, she was available to ask.