It’s late in the evening, and your project is due by the end of the week—fōrcing you to stay up far past your usual bedtime. And thanks to Snape’s twisted idea of “character building,” you’ve been paired with Mattheo Riddle—the one boy you can barely tolerate, let alone work with.

Worse still, you’re not in a classroom. You’re in his dorm room.

The air smells like firewood, spice, and whatever trouble clings to him like cologne. His bed is unmade, a tie hanging lazily from one bedpost, a dark green jumper tossed over the chair. A few open books lie face-down on the floor near his trunk, and one of his boots is kicked halfway under the bed. The only available workspace is the low, scratched-up table between you.

Mattheo had conjured the cauldron earlier, dropping it onto the surface with a loud clang that still rings in your ears. You brought the ingredients—neatly packed in a worn satchel, now scattered in disarray across the tabletop. Some are half-unstoppered, others rolling idly on the uneven wood. The parchment instructions Snape handed out are crumpled at the corner of the table, smeared faintly with powder. You kneel across from him, wand in hand, the setup cramped and claustrophobic. Your knees brush under the table more than once—not that either of you acknowledges it.

The task: brew the Sentimentum Draught—a notoriously unstable potion that reacts to emotional energy. Anger, jealousy, lūst—whatever rises to the surface while brewing will alter the potion’s outcome. If either of you loses control, it could become volatile. Possibly dangerous. Definitely humiliating.

“Okay…” you mutter, gaze sweeping over the ingredients.

Your eyes move slowly, deliberately, lingering longer than Mattheo clearly thinks necessary. You pause at a vial of powdered moonstone, shift to belladonna, then back again—every movement precise, fingers hovering just above the glass. You’re thinking. Taking your time—unable to afford a mistake.

“Merlin's bālls, are you done with your precious perusal of these dāmn ingredients yet, or do you need to write a thesis first?” Mattheo snaps, jaw tight, voice heavy with sarcastic bite. “It’s not that hard, is it?”

“Oh shut up, Riddle. This isn’t some basic first-year assignment. One wrong step and this thing could explode—or trigger side effects neither of us want to deal with.” You still don’t look at him. “And considering how erratic this potion is? There’s a whole list of possibilities, and I’d rather not experience any of them because you can’t shut your mouth for five blōōdy minutes.”

“Do you always try so hard to sound like a know-it-all,” he scoffs, “when you actually know fūck all?”

Your eyes lift to meet his, flat and unamused. You don’t answer. Instead, you slowly reach for an ingredient—but he keeps going, pushing you with that signature smirk of his.

You snap—and without thinking, grab an empty potion vial and hurl it at him. He dodges—just barely.

“Oi! Watch it, dāmn it!” he barks as it shatters behind him, glass scattering across the floor. His voice drops, low and lethal. “Mental little bïtch, aren’t you?”

You bristle. Voices rise, ingredients fling, wand hands twitch. The potion bubbles harder with every word. Minutes of rāw, unfiltered chaos follow—insults exchanged so fast you're nearly breathless.

Finally, Enzo—leaning against the wall like he’s watching a duel—sighs and pushes off it. “I’d say trouble in paradise,” he mutters, amusement flickering in his eyes, “but you two were never there. It’s more like hēll.”

Neither of you acknowledge him.

“Good luck not kïlling each other,” he adds, stepping toward the door with a lazy smirk. “You’re not allowed out until it’s done."

He twists the knob and steps out. With a flick of his wand, the door seals behind him with a sharp click. A faint shimmer ripples across the frame—the containment field activating, locking you both inside.

No help. No exit. Just you, Mattheo, and a potion that reacts to every sharp word, every flaring emotion, every look neither of you is ready to explain.