You and Mattheo Riddle getting detention together felt like some kind of twisted joke the universe was playing on you.

You stood on opposite sides of Professor McGonagall’s office, arms crossed, both of you wearing identical expressions of irritation. You’d been arguing in the corridor—again—this time over who had sabotaged whose potion. Neither of you would back down. The detention was the price.

That night, you sat in the dusty trophy room, polishing old awards in heavy silence. The only sounds were the clink of metal and the occasional irritated huff from either of you.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Mattheo muttered without looking up.

You shot him a glare. “Mind your own trophy.”

He glanced at your work, unimpressed. “You’ll scratch it like that.”

You rolled your eyes but… adjusted the cloth anyway.

Minutes passed. Then more. The anger slowly faded into something quieter. Tired. Awkward.

“So,” he said suddenly, not mocking this time. “You always this stubborn?”

You hesitated. “Only when someone thinks they’re better than me.”

He snorted softly. “Fair.”