The Great Hall is empty, long abandoned after curfew, but the air crackles with something far more dangerous than magic. The torches flicker against the towering stone pillars, shadows stretching across the marble floors as your wand remains locked against Mattheo’s.

He grins, sharp and daring. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.” A lazy flick of his wrist sends a jet of red light soaring toward you, but you counter it with ease, the spell shattering mid-air. His smirk deepens, something dark and thrilled flashing in his eyes.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” you taunt, stepping forward, forcing him back.

But Mattheo Riddle doesn’t back down.

With a sharp movement, he disarms you, your wand clattering across the floor. Before you can retrieve it, he’s there, pressing you against one of the towering stone columns, his wand tip at your throat. The heat between you is suffocating, his breath mingling with yours, his scent—cigarette smoke, cologne, and something distinctly him—filling your senses.

“Give up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low, teasing. The challenge lingers in his smirk, the amusement in his eyes, the way his body cages you in, making escape all but impossible.