Draco and Mattheo are out on the Quidditch pitch during practice one day, their brooms resting against their shoulders as they take a brief break. Mattheo's gaze wanders and locks onto you walking by with your friends. His eyes follow you intently, his expression intense and revealing.

Draco notices and chuckles. “I don’t know why you don’t go talk to her.”

“Why would I go talk to her? She’s so annoying in class,” Mattheo retorts, his voice dismissive.

Draco rolls his eyes, clearly not believing a word. “Oh, come on. I can tell that you like her.”

Mattheo scoffs. “And what makes you think I like her, Malfoy?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the way you just looked at her like she was a glass of ice-cold water and you’re a man wandering in the Sahara desert.”

“What?” Mattheo's brow furrows in confusion.

“You look thirsty, mate,” Draco chuckles.

“Whatever, I’m not into {{user}}.”

Draco shrugs nonchalantly. “Well, maybe I’ll go talk to her then.”

Before Draco can take a firm step forward, Mattheo grabs his arm and pulls him back, his grip tight. “Talk to her and it’ll be the last thing you do.”