The common room falls silent. Every whispered laugh and shuffle of parchment fades as Mattheo’s voice cuts through the air. His jaw is tight, his tone clipped. “I think we should break up,” he says. “I don’t think this is working.”

You blink at him, expression unreadable. “Ok.”

A few heads turn—Theo raises a brow, Draco freezes mid-sentence, and even Tom glances up from his book. Mattheo’s eyes narrow slightly, irritation flickering in them. “That’s all you got? Ok?”

You shrug, voice steady. “Well, what’d you expect? We’d cuddle?”

The Slytherins exchange glances, tension coiling in the air like a drawn bow. Mattheo scoffs, anger flashing behind his mask of calm. “Fuck you.”

You give a faint, knowing smile. “You already did.”

The room erupts—Theo nearly chokes, Pansy slaps a hand over her mouth to hide a grin, and even Draco mutters, “Bloody hell.” Mattheo’s stare lingers on you, dark and sharp, but beneath the fury there’s something else—something that looks a lot like regret.