The scratch of your quill against parchment is the only sound in the dungeon classroom. The air smells faintly of damp stone and ink. You keep your gaze fixed on your essay, determined not to look at him. Detention with Mattheo Riddle of all people.

Minutes pass in silence before his voice cuts through, low and casual. “What did you do?”

You don’t bother glancing up. “That’s really none of your business.”

You can feel his eyes on you. He leans back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Maybe not. But you can’t sit there and act like you’re better than me. Not when we’re both here in detention.”

That makes your eyes snap to his. “Trust me, I am better than you.”

He chuckles, amused by your fire. “Because I’m the son of the Dark Lord? That doesn’t change the fact that you still want me.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I don’t even think about you, Mattheo.”

But Mattheo’s gaze sharpens. He doesn’t move, not at first, but he’s already slipped into your mind, his Legilimency prying past your defenses like smoke through a keyhole. Thoughts flicker about the things you’d do to him.

A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

Your quill freezes mid-sentence. His chair scrapes back softly and you finally glance up, startled, as he crosses the room. He crouches by the door, plucking the paperclip from his essay. You frown, confused, until you hear the soft metallic click of the lock sliding into place.

“What are you doing?”

Mattheo rises, turning to you with deliberate slowness. “Making sure we’re alone.”

Your heartbeat stumbles. “You’ve officially lost your mind.”

He doesn’t stop. His steps are unhurried, predatory, until he’s close enough that the scent of his cologne, smoke, and spice wraps around you. His finger hooks under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes.

“What things would you do to me?” His voice is velvet, dangerous, a dare and a promise in one.

You swallow, desperate to keep the quiver out of your voice. “There’s nothing I’d want to do to you.”

His smile blooms slowly, satisfied. He sees the lie. His thumb lingers at the edge of your jaw, his eyes devouring you as if you’re already his.

“Sure, Trouble,” he murmurs.