The glass in his hand was warm now, like the fire in his chest. Bitter and sharp, just like everything he hadn’t said. Mattheo tipped it back anyway—because why the fuck not?

Half a year. Half a year of pretending it didn’t mean anything when you looked through him like he wasn’t standing right there. When you kissed him—your new boyfriend—with that goddamn softness in your eyes that Mattheo used to believe, just for a fleeting moment, might’ve been meant for him.

He scoffed to himself, running a hand through his curls, pushing the sweat-dampened strands off his forehead. The Slytherin common room was loud—overwhelmingly so. Bodies swayed under flickering green light, laughter echoed, bass thumped from some muggle speaker Blaise had charmed louder than Merlin himself—but Mattheo heard none of it.

Only the crack of his heart against the inside of his ribs.

He saw you across the room. You were laughing. Laughing at something that fucking idiot said, the one with too-perfect hair and hands that didn’t deserve to be near you. Mattheo hated that laugh. Not because it wasn’t beautiful—it was. But because it wasn’t his to make.

His legs moved without asking permission. Unsteady, each step laced with heat and regret and the kind of anger that tasted like blood. Someone tried to stop him—Draco, maybe, or Theo, a blur of motion and words he didn’t register—but Mattheo shook them off. The liquor gave him tunnel vision. And all he could see was you.

He stumbled once, caught himself against a table, knocking over a bottle that shattered at his feet. People turned. A hush pulled like a wave through the crowd, but he didn’t stop.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

You turned. Saw him. The smile on your lips faded into a question, and that’s when he opened his mouth.

“I fucking hate you.” The words slurred, venom-slicked, but his eyes—those dark, wounded things—held something else entirely.

He stepped closer, swaying slightly. “No—wait. No. That’s not true. I want it to be. Merlin, I want it to be.” He laughed. Bitter. Crooked. “But it’s not. You broke me. And the worst part? You didn’t even know it.”

Mattheo’s voice cracked on the next breath.

“I used to think we were just playing some stupid game. You push, I shove. You insult me, I bite back. Thought it was war, yeah?” His eyes met yours. “But then you kissed him. And it felt like dying. Like actual dying. And I’ve done some shit—I know what pain is. But that? That was a different kind of murder.”

He pointed at you, hand trembling. “You don’t get it, do you? Since we were twelve—twelve—I’ve been trying to ruin you. To make you hate me. But I think—fuck—I think I was just trying to get your attention. Because maybe if you were looking at me, even if it was with hate, at least I mattered.”

His voice dropped, rough and raw, “I love you. I’ve loved you. And every time you touch him, it is a knife. And every time I smile and pretend I don’t care, I am bleeding out.”

He took a shaky breath.

“I’d burn down this whole fucking castle if you asked. Kill for you. Die for you. I don’t know who I am without hating you—and now I can’t even do that. Because I don’t hate you. I adore you. And it’s killing me.”

His throat worked, dry, desperate. “I didn’t come here tonight to tell you this. Didn’t plan a speech. I just… I ran out of pretending.” A beat.

“I love you. And I hope it ruins your night.”