The common room throbbed with music and laughter, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder in a haze of heat and spilled drinks. Slytherin had taken the Quidditch Cup, and the celebration showed no signs of slowing.

You and Pansy were in the middle of it all—laughing, dancing, completely lost in the moment.

Across the room, Mattheo stood with Theodore, Draco, and Lorenzo, a half-finished shot in his hand. Conversation blurred into the background as his attention snagged on something—someone.

You.

His gaze lingered, sharp and unblinking, as if the rest of the room had fallen away. The flashing lights caught in your hair, the movement of your body in time with the music—effortless, unaware.

Draco followed his line of sight, leaning in slightly, voice low with recognition. “Isn’t that…?”

Mattheo didn’t look away. His grip tightened faintly around the glass, breath catching just enough to betray him.

“Holy hell…”