You didn't usually dance at parties, especially not in front of him.

But tonight, your blood was on fire. Maybe it was the stolen whisky. Or maybe it was the way Mattheo had been watching you all night with that smug, infuriating look. Or maybe it was the way he’d brushed past you earlier, snapping at you as usual. “Try not to embarrass yourself, yeah?”

You were already halfway onto the table before you realised what you were doing. You danced like you had something to prove... because you did. To everyone. But mostly to him.

And, of course, he was watching.

Mattheo was sitting draped across a chair, his tie loose. His gaze never left you, not once. Not even when someone called his name or Pansy tugged at his sleeve to distract him. His attention was fixed on you, his jaw clenched and his knuckles white around his glass.

The thing about Mattheo was that he didn’t look at people. He analysed them.

And you hated it.

You met his stare, unflinching. You raised your arms above your head and rolled your hips deliberately and defiantly. The crowd cheered and laughed, but your eyes never left his.

You wanted him to see you.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the ghost of a smirk curling his mouth.

It made your stomach twist.

He hated you. He made that clear during duels and in class, as well as muttering under his breath whenever you passed him.

And you hated him, too. You hated the way he got under your skin. You hated him for knowing exactly what to say to make you snap.

You hated the way he was always one step ahead and one inch too close.

So, when a tall boy you barely knew swaggered towards the table and held out his hand, grinning like an idiot, you laughed and took it.

And that was it.

Mattheo was up in an instant, his chair tipping backwards and hitting the floor. Conversations around you stuttered to a halt, but he just walked through the crowd as if the room weren't full of people watching him.

The boy froze halfway up the table when Mattheo reached it.

“You can go,” Mattheo growled.

The boy hesitated.

Mattheo’s wand was in his hand. “Now.”

He didn’t have to be told twice. The boy disappeared.

Mattheo climbed up slowly and deliberately, as if daring someone to stop him.

You glared at him. “What the hell are you doing?”

His lip curled. “Making sure you don’t embarrass yourself.”

“Go to hell.”

He stepped closer. “Ladies first.”

You shoved him, and he caught your wrist.“You love this, don’t you? The attention. The drama. The fact that I’m the only one who can keep up.”

“I hate you.”

He laughed under his breath, and Merlin, it was infuriatingly soft. “No, you don’t.”

You hated how close he was standing and how right he was — and how much he knew it.

But most of all, you hated the fact that you didn't move.

You danced.

With him.

Mattheo danced like he fought — with intensity and precision, as if every step were a challenge.