Like a hawk hunting its prey, Mattheo Riddle barely blinks as his dark eyes follow you through the Slytherin common room, the crowd of students doing nothing to make his gaze waver, or lost you for a second.

The line between best friends and lovers was getting more and more blurred with each passing day— or at least, for Mattheo, who could barely keep his feelings in check before he does something that he might regret.

Theodore has been doing a good job, to hold Mattheo back. Lorenzo has been even better, offering the wisest advices on how to, slowly, approach the situation and letting his feelings be known in a gradual way— oh, fuck that.

Whatever help his Slytherin friends spent three weeks working on, goes straight to the trash the moment a guy touches your waist, attempting to dance with you. The plastic cup is destroyed between his fingers and, throwing it to the floor, that's the last warning of Mattheo's explosive temper, fueled by a sense of jealousy and, most of all, possessiveness over you.

Whoever it was, loses his courage and takes his hands out of you, as soon as Mattheo glares daggers at him; his arm wrapping around your waist as if it were second nature. Guiding you — or, well, tugging your body to the direction he wants — to other corner of the dancefloor, Mattheo doesn't give you a chance to complain.

"You don't need that fucker for that," Mattheo leans closer, dark eyes softening as the tip of your noses brush with against each other— too intimate, too loving. "You have me."