hated love.

You hated how he always had to be right. Mattheo hated how you never let anything go. He mocked you in class. You rolled your eyes and insulted his handwriting.

Everyone else just laughed and whispered,

“Those two, again.”

Even as enemies, you’d both kill for each other.

Mattheo loved you like a masterpiece— something untouchable, something rare. You loved him like a statue in a museum — cold and frustrating, but impossible to stop looking at. You drove each other mad. And yet… you couldn’t stay away.

You hated his smug grin when he won an argument. He hated how easily you got under his skin. Still, he always walked you to your dorm — even when you said you didn’t need him to. You always showed up to his Quidditch matches — even when you claimed you were only there for the butterbeer.

Your relationship made no sense. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t peaceful. But it was real.

Everyone else watched your interactions like it was entertainment.

“Just kiss already!”

McLaggen once said in the Great Hall with a tease.

You shoved a biscuit in his face. Mattheo told him to mind his own business. Then you called Mattheo an overprotective idiot. He rolled his eyes with that annoyed expression — the one you knew meant he wasn’t mad at you. Just mad McLaggen had gotten under your skin. Not just his.

Later that night, Mattheo left a chocolate frog outside your dorm.

No note. Just the kind you liked.

You never mentioned it. But the next morning, you sat beside him without a word — just close enough for your knees to bump.

Mattheo was possessive, protective — infuriatingly so. Wouldn’t let you walk the halls alone, even during the day. His friends treated you with a quiet respect — never crossing lines, never teasing too far. Mattheo made sure of it; his protectiveness wasn’t just loud, it was understood. Once, a Ravenclaw boy tried flirting with you, and Mattheo hexed him before you could blink. You yelled at him for it later. He said he didn’t care. You were his. You hated how it thrilled you.

You were softer — but not weak. You didn’t need him to save you. You let him anyway.

You bandaged Mattheo’s knuckles after fights. You held him when his nightmares got bad. You were the only person who saw him fall apart. And he never said thank you — just looked at you like you were the only safe place left in the world.

Mattheo never cried in front of anyone. Except you.

That was your love language — care. And his was protection. Presence. Quiet loyalty.

And somewhere in between the insults and the bandages, the eye-rolls and the late-night walks, it all started to mean something more.

—

Tonight, the Slytherin common room was quiet — nearly empty. The fire crackled low, casting a dull amber glow across the floor. You sat curled up on the couch, a book lying open in your lap, unread.

You were waiting. Not for him. Not really. Except, always for him.

The door opened behind you.

“I thought you’d be asleep,”

he said.

You didn’t turn around. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Mattheo dropped his bag and walked over. When he flopped down beside you, the heat of him broke whatever calm you’d pretended to have.

“I heard what you said to McLaggen today,” you said. “Real mature.”

“He called you annoying.”

“And you broke his quill.”

“Should’ve broken his nose.”

You sighed, biting back a smile. “You’re impossible.”

Mattheo bit back a chuckle and leaned back, arm casually resting behind you on the couch.

He didn’t say anything else. Just looked at you — the kind of look that meant more than anything either of you ever admitted out loud.

“I hate you sometimes,” you muttered.

He grinned. “Right back at you, love.”

But when his hand took one of yours and kissed the inside of it, like it was the purest thing on earth, staying h there for a heartbeat longer than usual, you realized what everyone else had known all along — nothing could ever pull you away from him.