It all started with a deal.

Mattheo had swaggered up to you in the common room, smirk in place, eyes glinting with that dangerous mix of charm and trouble. “So here’s the thing,” he’d said, leaning against the back of your chair. “I need a girlfriend. Well, a fake one. And you, darling, happen to be perfect for the role.”

You’d stared at him, unimpressed. “Why would I ever agree to that?”

He had shrugged, casual as ever. “Because it gets people off your back about being single, and it gets people off my back about who I’m supposedly seeing. Win-win.” His smirk had widened. “Plus, you get to spend time with me. What more could you possibly want?”

Against your better judgment, you agreed.

At first, it was all an act. Holding hands in the corridor, sitting a little closer in the library, leaning against each other in the Great Hall. Mattheo played his role to perfection—teasing nicknames, casual touches, those smug grins when people whispered about the two of you. You played yours too, rolling your eyes at his dramatics but letting him drape his arm around your shoulders when Pansy was watching.

But somewhere between the staged laughs and the forced proximity, the lines began to blur.

It was in the way Mattheo actually listened when you spoke, even when you weren’t “performing.” It was in the way he’d save the last chocolate frog for you, muttering something about “don’t read into it” when you caught him. It was in the quiet moments—studying in the common room, shoulders brushing, when the world outside the two of you seemed to fall away.

One night, weeks into the charade, you found yourselves sitting by the fire after everyone else had gone to bed. His arm was stretched along the back of the sofa, your head resting lightly against it, your laughter fading into comfortable silence.

“You know…” Mattheo’s voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant. “…for something that’s supposed to be fake, this doesn’t feel very fake anymore.”

You froze, lifting your head to look at him. His eyes weren’t teasing or smug—they were searching, earnest in a way you weren’t used to seeing.

“Don’t,” you warned, half a whisper. “Don’t ruin this with one of your lines.”

But he shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not a line. I mean it.” His hand brushed against yours, tentative. “Tell me you don’t feel it too.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, because the truth was you did. You had for a while now. And admitting it out loud was terrifying.

But looking at him—really looking—you realized he wasn’t playing anymore either.

“…I do,” you admitted softly.

His grin spread slowly, bright and almost boyish, and for the first time since this whole game began, he leaned in without a smirk or a joke—just quiet certainty.

And when his lips finally met yours, it wasn’t for show. It wasn’t to convince anyone watching.

It was real.