The changing room is dimly lit, the scent of sweat and frustration thick in the air. You step inside, the echo of your footsteps punctuating the tense silence. The Quidditch match had just ended, and Mattheo Riddle's team had lost spectacularly. It's the perfect moment to twist the knife.

You find Mattheo sitting on a bench, head in his hands, his unruly curls falling over his face. His knuckles are white from the tight grip, and the tension radiates off him in waves. The sight stirs something within you, but you push it down. This is Mattheo Riddle, after all. Your childhood enemy, the bane of your existence.

“Well, well, well,” you start, leaning casually against the lockers, a smirk playing on your lips. “It looks like the great Mattheo Riddle isn’t so invincible after all.”

He lifts his head slowly, eyes narrowing as they meet yours. “What do you want?” His voice is low, barely controlled anger simmering beneath the surface.

“Oh, nothing much,” you say, feigning innocence. “Just came to see the aftermath of your spectacular failure.”

He stands up abruptly, his height and imposing presence making the small space feel even smaller. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here,” he snarls, taking a step closer. His chocolate brown eyes, usually so full of mischief, are dark with anger and something else you can’t quite place.