The Slytherin common room is louder than usual.

Music spills from enchanted speakers, green fire crackling in the hearth while students crowd the room in clusters of laughter and whispered secrets. Glasses clink, someone cheers near the staircase, and the air is thick with that reckless energy that only comes with a Slytherin party.

Mattheo stands near the edge of it all, one shoulder against the stone wall, drink untouched in his hand.

He’s not really here for the party.

He’s here because if he stays in his dorm one more night thinking about you, he might lose his mind.

He tells himself he’s over it. That ending things was the right move. That it was necessary.

Then the portrait swings open.

And you walk in.

The room fades instantly.

You’re laughing at something the boy beside you says, head tilted slightly, eyes bright in the firelight. Mattheo doesn’t recognize him at first—just another idiot with enough courage to stand too close to you.

Too close.

Mattheo’s grip tightens around the glass in his hand.

Theo notices first. “Don’t.”

Mattheo doesn’t answer.

Across the room, you brush a strand of hair behind your ear while the boy leans closer, clearly trying to impress you. Your smile is polite, easy. Comfortable.

Comfortable with someone who isn’t him.

The thought hits Mattheo like a curse.

“Mate,” Theo mutters quietly beside him, “you ended it.”

Still no answer.

Because in Mattheo’s mind, that detail feels irrelevant.

He pushes off the wall.

The crowd parts instinctively as he walks, the reputation of his name enough to shift people out of his path without a word. Conversations dim as whispers follow him across the room.

Son of the Dark Lord.

People notice when he moves.

You see him coming only when he’s a few steps away.

Your smile falters.

The boy beside you turns, clearly unaware of the storm walking toward him. “Hey, Riddle—”

Mattheo doesn’t even look at him.

His eyes are locked on you.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks calmly.

You fold your arms slightly, defensive instinct kicking in. “It’s a party.”

The boy shifts awkwardly. “We were just—”

Mattheo finally looks at him.

That’s all it takes.

The boy immediately shuts up.

Mattheo steps closer to you, voice dropping just enough that the words feel heavier.

“I see you’ve moved on quickly.”

Your eyes narrow. “You broke up with me.”

“And that means what, exactly?” he replies.

“That I’m allowed to talk to other people.”

Mattheo lets out a low, humorless laugh.

“Other people.”

The way he says it makes the phrase sound like an insult.

You tilt your chin up. “You don’t get to act possessive when you’re the one who ended things.”

For a moment, something flashes across his face—guilt, maybe. Regret.

But it disappears just as quickly.

“I don’t like seeing you with him,” Mattheo says simply.

“That’s not my problem.”

The boy beside you clears his throat nervously. “Look, mate, if this is a bad time—”

Mattheo finally turns fully toward him.

And smiles.

Not a friendly smile.

The kind that makes people reconsider every life choice that led them here.

“I’d walk away,” Mattheo tells him quietly. “If I were you.”

The boy hesitates.

Then he leaves.

Just like that.

You stare after him in disbelief before turning back to Mattheo. “That was unnecessary.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

Mattheo studies you for a long moment, jaw tight, eyes darker than the room around him.

“You think I enjoy watching you move on?” he asks quietly.

“You made that decision.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

The music swells again behind you, laughter rising as the party continues like nothing happened.

But standing there with him, the space between you feels heavy with everything neither of you ever finished saying.

You shake your head slightly. “You don’t get to claim me anymore, Mattheo.”

Something dangerous flickers behind his eyes.

“Maybe not,” he says softly.

Then he leans just a fraction closer.

“But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped wanting to.”