The low, emerald glow of the Black Lake shimmered against the Slytherin common room walls, casting ripples of shifting light across your skin. You sat curled effortlessly against Mattheo, his arm draped around your waist, fingers resting possessively against your hip. Every time he absentmindedly traced small circles there, your stomach fluttered.

Pansy lounged across from you both on the couch, legs crossed, flipping through a magazine but not actually reading it. Her eyes flicked upward—once, twice—then she scoffed loudly.

“God, she won’t give up, will she?” she muttered, tilting her head subtly toward the far end of the room.

You followed her gaze and—of course—there she was.

Daphne Greengrass.

Perfect posture. Perfect hair. Perfect scowl. Her blue eyes were locked on the three of you with an intensity that could probably set the furniture on fire.

Mattheo noticed her the same moment you did. You felt his jaw tense where it rested near your temple.

“She pops up all the damn time. Like a stalker,” he grumbled, voice dropping into that annoyed drawl that only came out when he was seconds away from snapping. His fingers tightened on your hip, tugging you just a little closer into him—an instinctive, territorial gesture that made Pansy bite back a smirk.

“Honestly,” she whispered, leaning in conspiratorially, “if she starts hissing and climbing the walls, I’m hexing her. I swear.”

You snorted softly, but before you could reply, Daphne stood abruptly. Not “stood”—marched. Right toward your couch.

Pansy raised her brows. Mattheo rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. His grip on you tightened again, subtle but firm—like he was already bracing himself.

Daphne came to a stop directly in front of you, arms crossed, chin lifted, glaring at Mattheo as if you weren’t even there.

The tension snapped tight as a drawn bowstring.

Mattheo’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Well,” Pansy whispered under her breath, “this should be entertaining.”