“No,” Mattheo retorted stubbornly, the single syllable escaping his lips with the petulance of a child denied dessert. It was almost a whine, drawn-out and drenched in dramatic exhaustion. His glare—half-lidded and sleep-heavy—shifted toward you briefly before he flopped back down with a groan, as though simply lifting his head had drained the last of his energy.

Why must you insist on dragging him out of bed after the sheer torture he’d just endured? He had spent what felt like an eternity with that greasy twat of a professor—Snape, of course—all because of one tiny mishap. A little extra mandrake root in someone’s cauldron. Barely a splash, really. And it wasn’t just anyone’s cauldron. It was a Gryffindor’s. Honestly, Mattheo would argue it was practically a public service.

Unbelievable.

With a theatrical huff, the boy rolled over, flinging himself onto his back like the world’s most dramatic starfish. He stared up at the ceiling of your shared dorm room, the soft glow of enchanted lanterns casting a golden hue over the space. It was an unspoken perk of being a prefect: your own room. Peace. Privacy. Or at least, it was supposed to be. Until Mattheo had unofficially, and quite enthusiastically, claimed half your territory. Possibly more than half.

Not that you’d ever really kicked him out.

He’d slowly but surely taken over the bed—sprawling across it like a cat in a sunbeam, shameless and smug. And your stuff? Missing jumpers, your favourite quill, your pillow—all mysteriously in his possession, all met with a casual “what? I like your things” when confronted.

“Too fucking cozy…” he muttered now, voice muffled as he draped an arm over his eyes, feigning blindness to your expectations. His other hand fumbled around lazily until it found your blanket and tugged it further over himself.

What an idiot. A warm, stubborn, infuriating idiot.