The Slytherin common room was alive with celebration of a Slytherin win during Quidditch. You stayed near the wall, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold. Pansy, in her typical commanding fashion, had declared a game of Seven Minutes in Heaven. You wanted no part of it, but saying no to Pansy was asking for trouble.

The bottle spun, pairing people off as the game progressed. Then, it happened. The bottle stopped, pointing first to you, and then, with an almost cruel sense of humor, it landed on Mattheo Riddle.

Your stomach dropped. Six years of rivalry, of sharp words and stolen victories, and now this? Mattheo sat across from you, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes steady and cold. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or roll his eyes like you expected. Instead, he stood and walked toward the small broom closet without a word, his movements deliberate.

“Go on,”

Pansy urged, clearly enjoying this far too much. Theo Nott shoved you forward before you could protest.

“Fine,”

you muttered under your breath, walking toward the closet as the others snickered. The door shut behind you with a heavy click, sealing you in a dim, cramped space.

Inside, a single wooden chair sat in the middle of the tiny room. Mattheo reached it first, lowering himself into it silently, his elbows resting on his knees, his posture calm but closed off. He didn’t look at you, just waited, as if this were nothing more than an inconvenience.

”There’s nowhere else to sit,”

you said, your voice sharper than you intended.

He finally glanced up, his expression blank.

“Then sit,”

he said simply, his tone cold and detached.

You hesitated, then reluctantly perched on his lap, trying to keep as much distance as possible between you. The tension in the room was suffocating, the silence broken only by the faint sound of the party outside. Mattheo didn’t move, didn’t react. You, however, were determined not to let the situation get to you. Seven minutes. That was all.