Warnings: arguing, jealousy, toxic relationship dynamics, possessiveness, kissing, emotional conflict, hurt feelings
Summary: After the match, the celebration carries on without him. When she finds Matteo alone in the corridor, a small misunderstanding turns into something sharper, exposing the jealousy, hurt, and messy kind of love neither of them knows how to handle.
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The Slytherin common room was loud enough to shake the walls.
People were everywhere, shouting over each other about the match, green banners draped over the sofas, bottles of Butterbeer being passed round like they'd just won the Quidditch Cup itself instead of scraping through by pure luck. Music echoed through the dungeon, heavy and uneven beneath the noise of too many voices, and someone had nearly fallen into the fireplace trying to stand on a table, their friends laughing too hard to help. The whole room felt overheated and restless, full of that wild, careless energy that came after a win no one was entirely sure had been deserved.
But Mattheo wasn't there.
I noticed that before I even meant to. My eyes skimmed over the room once, then again, catching familiar faces, green ties, raised bottles, but not his. It shouldn't have mattered. He had every right to disappear after the way he'd played. Still, his absence pulled at me instantly, sharp and impossible to ignore.
I found him in the empty corridor outside the boys' dormitories, sitting on the windowsill at the far end with his tie hanging loose round his neck and a bruise darkening along his jaw. The corridor was quiet in a way the common room wasn't, the cold stone swallowing the music until it was little more than a dull pulse in the distance. Pale light from the window cut across his face, catching the mess of his hair and the tense line of his shoulders. He looked like he'd been sitting there for a while, alone with whatever mood had settled over him.
The second he looked up and saw me, his expression hardened.
"Come to laugh at me too?" he asked, his voice flat as he leaned one shoulder back against the stone and looked at me like he'd already decided what my answer would be.
I stopped short, my steps faltering against the cold floor. "What?"
He let out a short, humourless laugh and turned his head towards the dark window again, jaw flexing. "You seemed busy enough doing it during the match."
"Mattheo." I stared at him, thrown by the bitterness in his voice, and took a cautious step closer. "What are you on about?"
He dragged his gaze back to mine, eyes cold and flat in a way that made something in my chest tighten. "The stands. You and that boy."
Realisation hit instantly.
"The boy in the stands?" I repeated, blinking at him as disbelief crept into my voice. "Are you serious?"
His jaw shifted, the muscle ticking. "You couldn't take your eyes off him."
A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it, mostly because it sounded so ridiculous out loud, because for one brief second I thought he couldn't possibly mean it the way it sounded. But the second the sound left me, I regretted it. His whole face tightened.
"Don't," he snapped, the words sharp enough to cut through the corridor.
I lifted a hand slightly, more out of instinct than thought. "I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing because that's insane."
His mouth twisted, not quite a smile and nowhere near amused, and he pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "Funny," he said, voice low and edged. "You didn't seem to think it was insane when he had all your attention."
"Mattheo, he was telling me that Nott nearly fell off his broom during practice," I said, trying and failing to keep my tone patient.
He looked at me like the explanation only made it worse. "And that was funny enough to flirt with him for an entire match?"
I blinked at him, staring. "Flirt?"
"Yes, flirt." He pushed himself off the windowsill in one sharp movement and landed on his feet, the suddenness of it making me straighten. He took a step forward, restless energy rolling off him in waves. "Don't act like you don't know what that looked like."
I opened my hands at my sides, incredulous. "I was standing there talking."
"You were smiling at him," he shot back immediately, like he'd been holding the words in for too long.
"Because he was speaking to me."
"Right." He said it with a bitter little nod, like he didn't believe a word coming out of my mouth.
I stared at him in disbelief. "You played terribly because I laughed at someone's joke?"
He stepped closer, all sharp movements and simmering anger, his hands flexing once at his sides before he forced them still. "You distracted me."
I gave a short, disbelieving shake of my head. "No, you distracted yourself."
His eyes flashed at that, dark and immediate. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
"No, I didn't." My voice sharpened before I could stop it, frustration flaring hot in my chest. I folded my arms tightly, like it might stop me saying more than I meant to. "Not everything I do is about getting a reaction out of you."
His stare turned cutting. "You looked at him every time I looked up."
"Because he was standing next to me," I said, stressing every word like maybe that would finally make it sink in.
He gave a tight shrug that was almost mocking. "You could've walked away."
I let out a breath of disbelief and looked at him like I didn't recognise what I was hearing. "So now I need permission to speak to people?"
His brow furrowed, but he didn't back down. "That's not what I said."
"It's exactly what you meant," I said, my voice going colder.
The corridor seemed even quieter after that, the distant noise from the party muffled behind the stone walls. He looked furious, but underneath it there was something more frayed than that, something raw and ugly and embarrassingly honest. It only made me more frustrated.
"Not everything is about you, Mattheo," I said, the words coming out harder than I meant them to.
They echoed against the stone and hung between us.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Then he scoffed quietly and shook his head, dragging a hand over his mouth like I'd just confirmed something he'd already decided to believe. "You always do this."
I frowned, anger and confusion colliding in my chest. "Do what?"
He looked at me properly then, eyes bright with something harsher than anger. "Act innocent after making me lose my mind."
My jaw dropped. "I'm not responsible for your jealousy."
"You knew it'd get to me," he said, his voice lower now, rougher round the edges.
I took a step closer without meaning to, too angry to stop myself. "And you let it ruin your whole match anyway."
His expression darkened. There was heat in it, but there was hurt too, buried so deep he probably hated that I could see it. "You think this is funny?"
"No." I looked at him, really looked at him, at the bruise on his jaw, the anger he wore like armour, the way every argument between us somehow circled back to the same mess. My voice dropped, quieter but somehow more cutting. "I think you're exhausting."
The second the words left my mouth, his face changed.
For one second he just looked at me, and all that anger seemed to fall back enough for something more exposed to show through.
Then he said, quieter, like the word itself had caught somewhere on the way out, "Exhausting?"
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry, but I didn't take it back. "Yes."
Something shuttered behind his eyes.
But instead of saying anything else, he crossed the distance between us and kissed me.
Hard and sudden, his hand sliding up to cup my jaw while the other tightened on my waist, pulling me flush against him like he couldn't stand even an inch of space between us. The impact of it stole my breath for a second. His mouth moved against mine with a bruising kind of urgency, demanding and unrelenting, like he was trying to pour every unsaid thing into the kiss before I could shut him out.
The kiss turned deeper almost instantly, heated and possessive, his grip firm as he tilted my face the way he wanted and kissed me like letting me go wasn't an option. It wasn't gentle or hesitant. It was desperate, overwhelming, and achingly familiar, the kind of kiss that usually made my thoughts blur and my anger unravel. He kissed me like he was trying to fix it, or erase it, or maybe just keep me there for one second longer before everything between us cracked open completely.
Usually, I'd have melted into him instantly. Usually, kissing Mattheo fixed everything for at least a little while. Usually, I let it. Usually, I wanted to.
But this time, it didn't.
This time all I could feel was the argument still burning under my skin, the sting of everything he'd thrown at me, the way he always reached for me like this instead of saying what he actually meant.
For a second, he chased it on instinct, leaning in again like he couldn't quite believe I was slipping out of his grasp, his fingers tightening at my waist before he caught himself. The movement was small, barely there, but I felt it. Then his hands loosened almost immediately, surprise flickering across his face, followed by something almost like regret.
The corridor fell silent.
I could still feel my heartbeat in my throat as I stepped back from him, shaking my head slightly. My lips still tingled from the force of the kiss, but the ache in my chest felt heavier.
"See?" I said quietly, wrapping my arms round myself as if that could steady me. "That's the problem."
Mattheo frowned, still looking at me like he hadn't caught up to the moment yet. "What is?" he asked, his voice quieter now, the anger in it dulled into confusion.
I let out a shaky breath and met his eyes. "You think kissing me fixes everything."
His chest rose and fell once. He looked away for half a second before glancing back at me. "It usually does."
I gave a small, disbelieving laugh, the sound thinner than I meant it to be, and rubbed a hand over my mouth. "Do you hear yourself?"
He looked almost frustrated now, but there was something raw under it, something uncertain that didn't show itself often. "I don't know what else you want me to do."
"Talk to me," I said, softer this time, because under all the anger that was all I'd wanted from the beginning.
His brows pulled together. "I am talking to you."
"No." I shook my head and looked at him steadily, even though my chest ached. "You're accusing me, getting angry, and then kissing me until I forget why we were fighting in the first place."
His gaze dropped for a second, then came back to mine, heavy with something I couldn't quite name. "Maybe I don't want you walking away angry."
"Maybe I don't want to keep doing this."
The honesty in that answer nearly broke my heart. Because I did love him. That was the worst part. I loved him enough that every fight felt like it scraped something raw inside me, enough that even now part of me wanted to take it back, step forward, let him kiss me again, and pretend none of this was happening.
I swallowed hard and forced the words out anyway. "Love isn't supposed to feel like walking through a war zone all the time."
His entire expression faltered for just a second, like the words had landed somewhere deeper than he wanted them to. The fight went out of his face in a way that made him look suddenly younger, less angry, more lost.
He looked at me like he wanted to say something, like there were a hundred things caught behind his teeth, but nothing came out. His throat moved once, and then again, and still he said nothing.
"Say something," I whispered, barely louder than the distant thud of music bleeding through the walls.
His voice was quiet when he finally answered, his eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder because he couldn't seem to hold my gaze anymore. "I wouldn't know where to start."
So neither of us said anything after that.
Because what was left to say?
I looked at him one last time before turning away, leaving the noise of the party somewhere far behind me. The music got louder again as I moved, the sound of people laughing and shouting bleeding back into the edges of everything, but it felt distant somehow, like it belonged to a different world entirely.
And for once, Mattheo didn't follow.
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