daisy

He’d been desperate to try them for weeks, and had finally managed to get his hands on some. Off one of Theo’s guys, nonetheless, something to do with ancient ruins and library sessions.

But for Ten Galleons a piece? It was ridiculous. The kid was making a killing.

Luckily, Theo had managed to convince the Hufflepuff to do them a deal, a sort of mates rates favour. Two for the price of one. Mattheo had gotten four, and now, there were only three sitting in his drawer.

He stalked over to his best friend’s bed first, yanking back the curtains suspiciously. It wasn’t beyond Theo to bump one and claim it as payment for brokering the deal.

But Theo’s bed was untouched—messy, but no sign of the stolen chocolate frog. Theo was evidently off with his latest fling of the month, explaining the empty bed. And so he huffed, eyes narrowing as he tugged open Theo’s top drawer.

Condoms. Lube. And a battered, rather questionable, copy of Witch Weekly— featuring an old photo of Celestina Warbeck on the cover, all winks and glittering robes. Mattheo snorted. The witch was old enough to be his grandmother nowadays, even if she was featured on the pages in all her youthful glory.

He made a mental note to bring that up next time Theo pissed him off. But aside from uncovering his late night reading material, the missing frog was still that. Missing.

Frowning, Mattheo lazily shut the drawer, glancing back towards his own bed deep in thought. No one else had known about them, only Theo and the Hufflepuff student. And he doubted Berkshire or Zabini had been rifling through his sock drawer as of late.

Unless… the crease in Mattheo’s eyebrows softened, lips parting into a sly grin.

“Of course,” he muttered offhandedly to himself, head shaking in disbelief. How could he have been so stupid.

What Mattheo hadn’t considered— the culprit who was hiding in plain sight— was you. His latest obsession over the past few weeks. Fuck buddies, friends with benefits, whatever you want to call it. You were the only other person who could’ve swiped it from his drawer. The only girl he’d trusted enough to let within ten feet of his bed.

He chuckled to himself as he pieced it together, imagining you rummaging through his drawers last night while he showered.

The post-fuck glow on your cheeks as you raked through his belongings, only to strike gold in the process. He shook his head, adjusting his shirt collar as he descended the stairs towards the Slytherin Common Room.

Mattheo’s suspicions were soon confirmed as he reached the bottom of the steps, scanning the empty Common Room and spotting you stretched out on a sofa, staring through the thick panes of glass and out into the expanse of the Black Lake.

Judging from the look in your eyes, he was certain he’d found the culprit of the stolen edibles, without even having to accuse you. The telltale flush in your cheeks, the glazed over, glassy eyes, and that red-rim that ran the length of your waterline.

“Oi, sticky fingers!” He called in that smug drawl you heard too often. Your head turned towards his voice, just a fraction slower than usual. “Enjoying my chocolate frog, are you?”

Shamelessly, your gaze flickered to the wrapper beside you, then flashed him a cheeky smirk. You’d always planned on getting caught, and you were definitely going to enjoy it.

“Could’ve been stronger,” you shrugged, arms reaching above your head to stretch, then twisting to look at him with one of your butter-wouldn’t-melt expressions. “But I’m not complaining.”

You stretched with a slow, exaggerated yawn, glancing back at him with hooded eyes. “Consider it payment…” you hummed coolly, “For services rendered.”

Mattheo’s smirk stretched, sharp as a blade, eyes glinting as he sauntered closer.

“Services rendered, huh?” he echoed, hooking his fingers under your calf and lifting your legs with a casual flick. “Funny. Don’t remember you settling that tab last night.”

He dropped onto the sofa, your legs draped across his lap like they belonged there. You smiled dreamily, adjusting in your seat and letting your mind wander back to the night before fondly.

“Or, for that matter, doing anything to make you worthy of my secret stash.” He added, fingers clasping in his lap.

“But don’t worry, darling.” His thumb reached out and traced a slow, deliberate circle on your ankle. “I’ll be sure to collect.”

Mattheo stilled his movements before letting out a snort, “And you owe me for that, by the way. Ten Galleons.” He nodded towards the wrapper. He might as well make some of his money back.

“Yeah?” you asked in a sultry whisper, head tilted teasingly, “Whatever happened to finders keepers?” You prodded his side, curling into his warmth.

In your haze, his body heat called to you, dragging you closer without a single word needing said. Mattheo rolled his eyes, slinging his arm over the back of the couch as you shimmied closer.

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises.” He grinned, gazing curiously toward the wrapper. His hand slipped from the back of the couch to your shoulder, body twisted to face you.

“Your card’s marked now, love,” he teased in a low whisper.

“Oh, no.” you retorted. Slow and languid. Voice dropping to match his low, taunting tone. You had to stop yourself from giggling at his teasing, the edible settling in and making you giddy.

“Go on, rub it in,” He mused, fingers tracing feather-light circles on your skin, “Is it good?”

Your skin prickled under his touch, your face nuzzling into his shoulder as a content sigh escaped you.

“S’good,” you murmured, head lolling to look up at him was a soft grin, “Can definitely feel it, feels nice.”

Mattheo’s brow arched, a cocky smirk tugging at his mouth.

"So what you're saying is... you're still fully aware of your actions?" His fingers began to trail down your shoulder, brushing slowly down your hip, then smoothing across your thigh.

You hummed, a sly grin widening as you leaned into him, “Why so many questions, Riddle?”

His smirk deepened as he shifted, pulling you closer, settling you into his lap like second nature. Like that was where you belonged.

"Oh, no reason.” His hand crept higher up your thigh, maddeningly slow. “Just curious.”

You glanced at him sceptically, knowing that tone all too well. His finger stopped just short of the hem of your skirt, circling the skin slowly.

His breath was hot against your ear as he leaned forward, "Can I test something real quick, sweetheart?"

You thought for a moment, a loose smirk tugging at your mouth. Your hands slid up his chest, arms looping around his neck.

“Depends.”

Mattheo’s breath hitched as your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt, his gaze darkening, tracking every slow movement. Your answer only further encouraged him, the tension thickening with every second .

“I promise you’ll like it,” he added, fingers returning to trace lazy patterns on the inside of your thigh, just above the knee.

“Just stay still,” he said, pausing his movements long enough to grab your attention, “Think you can do that for me, yeah?”

You hummed noncommittally, almost like instinct, body slipping into autopilot as the sensation of his touch soothed you. The warmth radiating from him lured you in, hazy and lethargic. He only smiled as you settled further into his lap, letting his hands guide you closer till his chest was pressed flush against your back.

Your head tipped back against his shoulder gently, staring up at him with an intrigued gaze. You could certainly feel the telltale signs that you were stoned, eyelids a little heavier, that fuzzy feeling that lingered on the edges of each brush of his fingers.

He knew exactly how his touch affected you, and a self-satisfied smile spread across his lips.

“Good girl,” he spoke, words dripping with that teasing tone he could pull off so well. A shiver crept up your spine at the sound of his voice, both gravelly and affectionate, and murmured into the shell of your ear.

Slowly, he leaned closer, lips just barely brushing your neck, his free hand slid up and pushed your hair to the side softly. Tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness he rarely showed.

Your eyes flickered up to his, full of curiosity, as his other hand wandered lazily across the inside of your thigh, fingers occasionally reaching high enough to make your breath hitch, but never quite touching where you wanted.

“Mattheo…” you whispered hesitantly, every nerve ending focusing on the pads of his fingers that brushed carefully along the tender skin. You were stoned enough now that you’d tuned into every little touch, brains turned to mush at the first graze of his calloused hands.

“Shh. Stay still, remember?” Mattheo chastised, the smirk still plastered across his face.

He leaned closer, and nipped gently at your neck, teeth grazing across the skin, just sharp enough that you gasped, his name on the tip of your tongue. Mattheo grinned, free hand clapping over your mouth, the warmth of his palm muffling the small sound you hadn’t meant to let slip.

“You can be quiet for me, can’t you, love?” He murmured, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

His hand was still pressed against your mouth, waiting for an answer. His eyes had darkened, closer to black than the typical walnut brown you were used to. Like something primal, something he couldn’t quite control, had grasped ahold of him.

Your own widened, still heavy and tired from the weed, but your gaze stayed locked on him. Frozen still for fear of disappointing him, and ignoring the urge to cant your hips with what little restraint you had left.

“There you go,” he murmured encouragingly, removing his hand with a lingering sweep down your side. You couldn’t hold back from twitching as he skimmed across your hip. His fingers dipped beneath your skirt again, this time brushing over your underwear in a feather-light pass that had you tensing, breath caught.

“Such a clever thing, aren’t you?” His words hummed against your ear. Slow, condescending, addictive.

Your thighs flexed instinctively but his hand remained infuriatingly light, taunting. You chewed your bottom lip, head still tilted back against his shoulder in a mix of bliss and frustration. His free hand crept up your body, his thumb flicking gently, and freed your bottom lip with a low chuckle.

“Don’t bite too hard, love. Wouldn’t want to bruise that pretty mouth.”

His thumb swiped over the curve of your lips, smirking at your open mouth. The flush in your cheeks deepened, eyes drooping and not caring how wrecked you looked. His fingers resumed their delicate strokes at the apex of your thighs, every touch just shy of enough to make you feel real pleasure.

“How high are you, sweetheart?” He asked again, voice low, velvety, almost concerned— if not for the wicked glint in his eyes. You exhaled, glancing from his hand working beneath your skirt back to his expectant stare.

“Enough,” you admitted, unable to lie to him, the words barely above a breath, “Still conscious enough to know you’re teasing me.”

His smirk sharpened. “Good,” Mattheo muttered, fingers pressing the tiniest bit firmer against the soaked patch of your underwear, “I wouldn’t want you missing any of this.”

Your breath hitched, hips shifting instinctively, lifting up and trying to grind against his palm. Mattheo tutted, pulling his fingers back with a mocking sigh.

At the loss of contact you whimpered, a wrecked plea falling from your mouth, “Mattheo please… touch me, want—”

The words faltered, catching in your throat, because you didn’t know what exactly you were begging for— even as your fingers wrapped around his wrist, chipping away at his restraint with your delicate touch.

“Please… want to cum.” you forced out in a strained voice.

Mattheo’s grin sharpened immediately, slow and wolfish, eyes dark as he drank in every inch of your slow unraveling. The way you dissolved into him without question, fingers tangling in his shirt, neck exposed and eyes squeezed shut in frustration. It drove him crazy.

He chuckled, a low, rasping sound that vibrated through his chest. “Oh, sweetheart. Don’t worry, you’ll cum. That’s not the problem.”

His fingers pressed more deliberately now, tracing the seam of your underwear, a fraction more pressure. Enough to make you press your thighs together, trapping his fingers between them. He tsked, ignoring your evident frustration, and forced your legs to part roughly.

“The problem, darling, is me deciding when you deserve to cum.”

You bit back a whimper, nuzzling further into his neck, the soft haze from the chocolate frog making his touches feel heavier, like every brush of his fingers was sinking deeper into your skin. Your skin prickled from his touch, the warmth of his palm smoothing across your thigh occasionally, the pads of his fingers dipping close— but never close enough.

Mattheo shifted beneath you, the movement slow and indulgent, as if he had all the time in the world. His palm flattened against your thigh, sliding under your skirt with a lazy purpose, until his fingers found your core through the thin fabric.

“See,” he breathed, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “This is what happens when you steal from me. You get all needy and worked up, and I…” his fingers pressed down on your clit, moving in a tight circle. “I, sweetheart, get to decide when you can cum. Understand?”

Your hips pushed against his hand, a soft whine muffled against his shoulder. The sensation of his fingers dulled at the edges, but it made every shift of his palm feel molten. Like you needed his touch, desperately.

“You’re not even trying to stay still, are you?” he smirked, half amused, half admiring, his tone dripping with mock pity. “Knew you’d be a needy little thing, so needy for me when you’re stoned.”

His fingers finally slipped beneath your underwear, his touches lazy, confident. Two fingers parting you in a slow, torturous drag that had your breath catching sharply. But even then, he didn’t rush. He traced soft circles, the cruelest pressure, soaking in every twitch and breath you gave him.

“Better,” he murmured approvingly, feeling the way you melted into him, fighting the urge to squirm, the way your breath hitched at every excruciating pass of his fingers. “You’re so easy for me. Makes a change, love. Must be the frog.”

If his voice was sordid, then his grin was filthy.

You hummed, barely holding on, too lost in the haze to respond. Your fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself as his pace remained unhurried, maddeningly soft. He was testing you, seeing how far he could push without giving you relief.

Mattheo’s lips pressed against your temple, lingering there as his fingers dipped slightly, the rhythm staying steady, but the pressure deepening just enough to make your thighs quake. Your lips parted breathlessly as he pushed in, finding that soft spot inside that made you moan brokenly.

“Look at you, you’re a mess.” he cooed against your skin, you could feel the grin on his face. The mocking, taunting way his laughter came out in a lazy chuckle, right by the shell of your ear. “And you said it wasn’t strong enough.”

His thumb shifted, brushing a deliberate, feather-light stroke over your clit that had your entire body tensing, a soft gasp breaking free before you could stop it. His arm around your waist gripped tighter, pinning you to him as though he could feel you unraveling.

“Shh, You’re supposed to be quiet, remember?” he teased, though his lips against your cheek were infuriatingly tender. As if he weren’t currently fucking his fingers into your cunt slow and tauntingly. “You’re not going to make me cover that pretty mouth again, are you?”

You whimpered, shaking your head as his fingers curled inside you and dragged against your walls deliciously. He rewarded your answer with another pass of his thumb, firmer this time, slower, dragging the sensation out until your hips were stuttering against him.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice low, the smug satisfaction in his tone making your head spin. “Good girl.”

He didn’t stop or speed up, but the way his fingers worked you was calculated, like he wanted you to hang on the edge—floating in that foggy, stoned bliss where everything felt slower, heavier, and yet so sharp when he touched you just right.

“Now,” he whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, “Tell me again how you thought you could steal from me and get away with it.”

Your breath was shaky, words barely forming, but your grin—lazy, cocky, matching his—spread across your lips anyway.

“M’getting what I want, though,” you whispered, a shaky little laugh catching in your throat. “You spoiling me. Can’t even stop yourself, can you?”

Mattheo scoffed and pressed another kiss to your temple. Fingers still frustratingly dragging through your slick, coating your thighs in it as he hummed, a dangerous low sound that had you twitching with anticipation. His grin sharpened against your temple, the faintest flicker of amusement laced with something darker. His fingers stilled, cruelly motionless beneath your skirt.

“Oh, you think you’re clever now, do you?” he murmured, voice molten silk, his lips brushing feather-light along your hairline. “I should leave you like this, then. All worked up, dripping for me like a desperate little slut. That sound good?”

Your breath stuttered, hips shifting instinctively, but his grip at your waist pinned you down, firm and unrelenting.

“Don’t.” His voice dropped an octave, a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. “I’m in charge, sweetheart.” His voice held that teasing lilt to it, all saccharine and mocking, leaving you squirming and whining for him.

Mattheo’s fingers hovered, cruelly still, the tension in his knuckles betraying just how easy it would be for him to give you exactly what you wanted. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“You know what’s missing, don’t you?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple, maddeningly patient. “You’ve got a filthy mouth when you’re teasing, but now? Suddenly quiet.”

His fingers slid just so, enough to make you twitch, a soft gasp breaking free—but the touch was fleeting. Barely a taste.

“Stole from me after I fucked you so good. Lied to my face. And now you want me to make you cum?” he hummed, mock-pondering. “No, no, sweetheart. I think there’s something you owe me first.”

You squirmed against him, frustration simmering as his fingers stayed poised, ready to ruin you but choosing restraint. His smirk was infuriating.

“Go on,” he drawled, his grip tightening at your waist. “Be a good girl and apologise, then I’ll let you cum.”

It was a demand disguised as a request, his tone velvety soft, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. Your throat felt dry as you swallowed, your pride prickling, but his fingers flexed—a silent warning—and you knew he’d keep you dangling in this haze until you gave him what he wanted.

“Sorry…” you murmured, barely audible, but it wasn’t enough. He stilled completely, waiting.

“Louder, love,” Mattheo said, voice dipping low, lips grazing your ear, “and try again. Like you mean it, this time.”

The flush burned your cheeks, but you forced the words, breathless and trembling, Too worked up, too close to the edge that you couldn’t help but beg.

“M’sorry I stole from you, Matty.” you whined, wriggling. “Please, I’m sorry.”

A soft, satisfied chuckle rumbled through his chest. “That’s my girl.”

His fingers slipped through your folds in an instant, parting you in a fluid, unhurried stroke that had your head snapping back with a gasp. His thumb found your clit with surgical precision, circling slowly, keeping you on edge but giving just enough to flood your senses.

“See? Apologies aren’t so hard,” he murmured, his pace now deliberate, steady, driving you closer with every calculated motion. “But steal from me again, love, and I’ll make you say it with your mouth full next time.”

The climax built sharp and fast, your muscles tensing, breath hitching as he pushed you right to the brink. You head lolled back against his shoulders, incoherent moans slipping from your lips with each desperate gasp.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” He praised, fingers pumping faster as he chased your orgasm. Your hips snapping forward to meet each thrust eagerly. “Fuck, you’re soaked—” He groaned into your ear, cursing faintly under his breath. “That’s it baby, cum for me.”

His hold was firm, his body heat sinking into yours as the wave crashed, pulling you under in a shuddering, breathless release. The moan that tore from your throat was filthy, loud and involuntary. Which only spurred him on more, fingers pumping and curling against the soft spot that made you squeal.

Had you not been so caught up in the blinding pleasure of your orgasm, you would’ve been embarrassed. Mattheo’s free hand fumbled, grasping your throat and squeezing for just a second before finally clasping over your mouth, muffling the sound.

“Shh, shh, shh, sweetheart.” He cooed, “You don’t want everyone hearing how good I’m making you feel, do you?”

Mattheo’s fingers kept pumping, working you through your orgasm and well into overstimulation. Your hips shook, moans turning into whimpers and finally he let up. Satisfied with the way you trembled, soft noises muffled into his palm, endless babbling of praise and thank you’s, and anything else you could force out.

Wrecked, you nuzzled into his throat, shamelessly seeking his warmth. He let you stay there, cradling you lazily against him as though you weighed nothing. His palm rested on the small of your back, while the other dragged through your hair, scratching gently at your scalp.

“Oh, and next time you’re tempted by my stash,” he murmured, voice dripping with lazy amusement, “you’ll remember this frog cost you more than ten Galleons.”

You hummed in noncommittal agreement, eyelids drooping, body heavy and content in his hold. His fingers kept stroking idly at your thigh, the slow rhythm soothing now, encouraging your eyes to flutter shut in slow blinks, fighting the urge to pass out.

“That frog was worth every Knut,” you muttered, smug even as you drifted away, staring out at the Black Lake. His grin remained. Sharp. Possessive.

“Then, next time,” he added, kissing the shell of your ear, “I’ll make sure you won’t be able to walk back to your dorm at all, love. Understood?”

You smiled lazily, your fingers gave the faintest tug on his collar, a silent challenge he’d always recognise. Mattheo’s chuckle was low, amused, and dangerous. He kissed your temple again, this time softer, almost fond.

“You’ll learn, eventually.”

The faint scent of smoky wood clings to his shirt, wrapping around you like another set of arms — steady, grounding, inescapably him. Your heart flutters underneath his tender grasp in a way so distinctly Mattheo that every stray worry from the day dissolves, quieting the static in your head until there's nothing but the safety of his hold. He doesn't even have to speak. His presence alone soothes, his warmth seeping into you until you melt further into him.

You nestle closer, melting into his body with a relaxed and satisfied sigh, his arms achingly familiar as you settle into position. The warmth of his body is immediate, heat radiating through the shirt, chin brushing your shoulder when he settles. A mix of his cologne blended with the scent of his shaving lotion lingers, and it fills your lungs with every breath, making you melt into him even more.

His hand was rested warm and deliciously heavy on your thigh — the feeling innocent and cozy, at first. His fingers moved slowly and absentmindedly, tracing idle shapes into your skin as if he's drawing invisible letters only he knows. Circles. Lines. Spirals. Thoughtless shapes.

You don't mind it much; his touch is familiar, grounding — and yet, it's the only thing you can seem to focus on. Every absentminded stroke burns softly into your skin, each pattern he traces stealing more of your attention until the movie becomes nothing but a blur. It's consuming, the way something so casual feels deliberate, like he knows exactly how to unravel you without even trying.

But then his thumb presses a bit harder, kneading into the soft muscle, edging higher with each absentminded pass. You shift against him, trying to stifle the sharp gasp as your breath catches in your throat.

He feels it. Of course he does. You hear the low rumble of his chuckle against your shoulder before he bends closer, his lips almost brushing your ear.

"Eyes on the screen, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice dripping with quiet command. "You wanted to watch this movie, didn't you?"

The pads of his fingers slip higher, brushing the hem of your shorts. A single, deliberate touch. Then another. He lets his knuckles drag along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh until you're fighting not to squirm with all your will. The heat rising inside you is unbearable and delicious, coiling low in your belly with every idle stroke of his sinfully skilful fingers.

Mattheo's touch travels higher, knuckles grazing the inside of your thigh, until the tips of his fingers meet the thin band of your underwear through your shorts. Your body tenses, but not to pull away, but to hold still, filling you with a nervous anticipation that coils tighter in your stomach, like a cord pulled taut and ready to snap.

By the time his hand finally slips beneath your shorts, your breath hitches audibly. The rough pad of his palm meets bare skin, sliding up until it presses against the damp cotton of your underwear.

But Mattheo doesn't dive in, doesn't rush. He just presses there, slow, deliberate circles that make your clit throb beneath the thin fabric. Each movement pulls a tiny sound from you, the catch of your breath, the sharp inhale you try to muffle.

The cotton darkens quickly with your essence, shamelessly obeying to the feather-light pressure from his fingers.

"Good girl," Mattheo breathes against your ear, lips grazing your skin with the slightest of a touch. "Keep watching the movie. Let me have this."

But you definitely aren't watching. You bite down on your lip to muffle the needy sounds, forcing your eyes to stay glued to the blur of moving shapes on the screen. You know he will stop as soon as you avert your gaze from the movie. But it's impossible to focus, impossible to breathe evenly when every nerve in your body is tuned to the rhythm of his hand. The friction is maddening. Soft fabric drags over slick heat as he rubs you — steady, patient — each brush of his fingers making your muscles tighten a little more.

Mattheo's eyes never leave your face. He studies you like he's memorizing every reaction. The way your pupils dilate, the flutter of your throat when you swallow, the bite on your lower lip, the way your chest rises unevenly.

"Fuck," he whispers to himself, "you're so perfect for me like this."

You stay like that for what feels like forever — stretched out between the movie's noise and the frustrating, slow rhythm of his hand. He doesn't speed up, doesn't press harder. He just keeps you on that edge of almost pathetic need, stroking through the damp fabric, letting arousal pool and thrum inside you like it's his to control.

Minutes bleed into eternity, your underwear damp and clinging to your sensitive skin, whole body burning with the effort of staying still and wanting more. When the credits finally roll, your lungs are trembling with how shallowly you've been breathing. You think maybe he'll stop now, but instead, his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, guiding your head until you're looking at him.

"You've been so good for me," he cooes softly. And then, finally, his hand slips beneath your underwear.

The first stroke of his fingers against your bare heat is devastating. You gasp, sharp and desperate, head falling back against his shoulder. He's slowly, carefully, running his fingertips through the slickness he's coaxed out of you, spreading it over swollen skin until every nerve sparks. He groans softly in response, more to himself than to you, like the sight of you undone on his lap feeds something deep and primal in him.

"You're soaked," he murmurs, dragging a finger through your slick folds before circling your clit. "And all just from sitting pretty for me."

When he presses one finger inside, it's smooth, deliberate. The intrusion makes your walls clench hard around him, trying to have him deeper.

He adds the second finger slowly, the stretch delicious, his rings cool against your skin where they brush your entrance. He doesn't thrust hard — instead, he moves with agonizing control, curling just right, stroking that spot inside you that makes small pathetic whines escape your lips. The wet sounds are obscene, filling the quiet room, and your hips buck helplessly into his hand.

"Easy," he murmurs velvety but firm, pressing his palm down against your clit while his fingers curl deep inside you. "Don't rush it. Let me have you slow. Can you do that for me, sweetie?"

You nod abruptly, barely register the question. All you can feel is him — scent, warmth, fingers, hot breath ghosting over your neck, eyes that never leave your face. The rhythm of his movements is unrelenting, and pleasure builds hot and thick in your stomach, coiling tighter and tighter until you're desperately shivering in his lap.

You can't help it anymore. Your hips begin to rock against his hand, your thighs trembling as you chase more of the friction he keeps denying you. He growls low in your ear, biting at your neck just hard enough to sting.

"Look at me."

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His stare is dark, unrelenting, drinking in every shiver, every broken sound spilling from your lips. Mattheo doesn't blink. Doesn't look away. He breathes you in, eats your image up like it was the one thing he wants to do for the rest of his life. His thumb presses against your clit at the same moment his fingers curl deep inside you, and your world shatters.

The orgasm rips through you in waves, your body arching against him, thighs clamping around his wrist, nails digging into his arm as you ride the waves. You moan his name, desperately and whiny, and he holds you there, dragging it out, forcing you to feel every pulse, every contraction.

It's not a sharp snap, it's a slow, overwhelming flood, heat rushing through your body in waves while your body clenched around his fingers. He keeps moving you through it, fingers stroking inside you until the pleasure blurs into overstimulation and you whimper for him to stop.

Only then does he withdraw, slow and deliberate, his fingers glistening with your essence. He lifts them to his lips without breaking your gaze and sucks them clean, humming low and sated in his throat at the sweet taste.

You can barely breathe when he leans in, nose brushing gently against your cheek, voice husky with satisfaction.

“Bet I can make her come more times than you,” Mattheo said, voice a low growl, like he was staking a claim. He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot, reeking of whisky and mint, making your skin prickle. “What do you think, princess? Wanna see who fucks you better?”

Theo’s laugh was a velvet rasp, his legs spread wide, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, I’ll have you screaming my name before he even gets you wet. You’ll be begging for my cock, tesoro, trust me.” His accent curled around the words, thick with promise, his fingers flexing like he was already imagining you under him.

Your breath hitched, cunt already throbbing, soaking through your panties at the torment you've already endured from the pair tonight, slow whispers against your ear, calloused hands roaming your thighs. You should’ve backed out, laughed it off, but their eyes—Mattheo’s warmth, Theo’s teasing—had you hooked, your pulse pounding in your ears. “Prove it,” you whispered, voice shaky but defiant, and their grins widened, feral and dangerous.

Mattheo’s hand clamped around your wrist, yanking you up with a possessive tug. Theo was already moving, tossing his wand aside with a clatter, his long strides matching Mattheo’s as they dragged you through the dungeon’s winding corridors. Their hands were everywhere—Mattheo’s gripping your arm, bruising, Theo’s on your lower back, fingers grazing the curve of your ass, sending heat pooling low. The dorm door slammed shut, the heavy oak rattling the stone walls, locked with a wandless spell that echoed like a gunshot. The room was a cave of shadows, green lanterns casting an eerie glow, the air cool and sharp, smelling faintly of old books and their mingled scents, all undercut with the faint metallic tang of post-match adrenaline.

Mattheo didn’t wait. He shoved you against the nearest four-poster, the carved wood biting into your hips, his body pinning you, hard and unyielding. “Having regrets yet?” he growled with no intention of letting you answer, lips crashing into yours, all teeth and desperation, his tongue claiming you, tasting of smoke and sin. His hands tore at your shirt, buttons popping like tiny explosions, scattering across the floor. Theo was behind you, his deft fingers unhooking your bra, letting it fall as his lips grazed your neck, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. “Cazzo, you’re fucking perfect,” he murmured, his breath hot and damp, nipping until you whimpered.

You were caught in their heat, drowning in it—Mattheo’s raw intensity, Theo’s calculated seduction. They stripped you bare in seconds, skirt yanked down, panties ripped off, the fabric tearing with a sharp rip that made you gasp. Your skin was alive with sensation—the cool silk sheets under your knees as they pushed you onto the bed, the rough calluses of Mattheo’s hands, the soft brush of Theo’s fingers. You were trembling, cunt dripping, the air thick with the musky scent of your arousal, mingling with their sweat and cologne.

Mattheo climbed over you, knees spreading your thighs, his eyes locked on your slick folds. “Fuck, look at that, so fucking wet already,” he said, voice hoarse, his fingers sliding through your folds, the wet squelch loud, obscene, filling the room. “You’re dripping for us, barely touched you yet.” Theo knelt beside your head, his cock already out, hard and curving, pre-cum beading at the tip. “Open that pretty mouth, dolcezza,” he purred, voice like silk, “let’s see how much you can take.”

“First one’s mine,” Mattheo snapped, smirking at Theo as he plunged two fingers into your cunt without warning, stretching you so fast you cried out, the burn raw and overwhelming. His knuckles grazed your walls, curling hard against your G-spot, his thumb grinding your clit in brutal circles. The wet slaps of his fingers fucking you echoed, your slick coating his hand, dripping onto the sheets. Theo’s hand tangled in your hair, guiding your lips to his cock, the taste salty, musky, as he pushed past your lips, hitting the back of your throat. “That’s it, baby, let go,” he coaxed, voice low, “choke on me, show us how good you are.”

The first orgasm hit like a tidal wave, your cunt clamping down on Mattheo’s fingers, a scream muffled around Theo’s cock as your body bucked, slick spraying onto Mattheo’s wrist, the sheets. “Fuck, yes, soak my hand,” Mattheo groaned, not slowing, his fingers pumping through your spasms, dragging out every pulse. “One,” he counted, voice smug, his free hand slapping your inner thigh, the sting blooming hot.

Theo didn’t give you a second to breathe. He pulled out, letting you gasp, only to replace his cock with his fingers, forcing you to taste your own slick as he slid them into your mouth. “Suck.” he ordered, his other hand pinching your nipple, twisting until you yelped. Meanwhile, Mattheo’s mouth descended, his tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit, sucking hard, the wet slurping sounds mixing with your choked moans. “So fucking sweet, still pulsing for me,” he muttered against you, the vibrations sending shocks through your core. “Come on, baby, give us another.”

Your body was screaming, nerves frayed, but the pleasure was relentless. Theo’s fingers fucked your mouth, his thumb smearing your spit across your lips, while Mattheo’s tongue flicked mercilessly, his fingers sliding back in, three this time, stretching you to the point of pain. The second orgasm tore through you, your walls spasming, your thighs shaking as you screamed around Theo’s fingers, slick gushing again, pooling under you. “Two,” Theo purred, licking his fingers clean, his eyes never leaving your flushed, tear-streaked face.

They didn’t stop. Mattheo was on you now, flipping you onto your knees, the bed creaking under his weight. “Gonna fuck you till you’re dumb,” he growled, his cock slamming into your sensitive cunt, the stretch burning, his girth filling you so completely your breath caught and your toes curled. His thrusts were brutal, hips slamming into your ass, the wet slap of skin on skin ringing out, your slick coating his thighs. Theo was in front, fisting your hair hard, guiding his cock back to your mouth. “Suck me good, doll, let’s see that throat work,” he said, thrusting deep, your gag reflex kicking in as spit dribbled down your chin.

“Who’s fucking you better, baby?” Mattheo taunted, his thrusts punishing, each one driving his cock deeper, hitting your cervix, making your body jolt. “Mmmngh—Matt—fuck!” you babbled, voice breaking, your walls clamping down hard, spasming around his length as another orgasm ripped through you, your nails scrabbling at Theo’s thighs, desperate to hold on. Slick sprayed, soaking the sheets, your body trembling uncontrollably. “Yeaahh, that’s it, makin’ a fucking mess on my cock, aren’t you?” Mattheo groaned, his hips stuttering, your pussy gripping him like a vice. “Three.”

You were a wreck, oversensitive, nerves screaming, but they didn’t care. “Can’t—please, too much,” you sobbed, words slurred, spit pooling on the sheets as Theo pulled out, stroking himself, his eyes dark with lust. “Too much?” Theo mocked, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him, his thumb smearing your tears. “We've barely started.” Mattheo spanked you, hard, the sting sharp, blooming across your ass. “Keep coming, baby, let go for us,” he growled, his cock relentless, dragging another orgasm from you, your body convulsing, vision blurring as you screamed, “Four.”

They repositioned you, your limbs like jelly, barely able to hold yourself up. Theo took Mattheo’s place now, pulling you to straddle Mattheo, who lay back, his cock sliding into your dripping cunt with a wet squelch, the burn making you whimper. Theo was behind, lubing himself with a wandless spell, his fingers teasing your ass, cold and slick, before he pushed in, slow but unforgiving. The dual stretch was unbearable—two cocks filling you, splitting you open, the burn, the sensitivity and pleasure blurring into a single, overwhelming pulse. “So fucking tight back here, fuck,” Theo grunted, his voice strained, his hands digging into your hips. “Relax, baby, let us both have you.”

They moved together, Mattheo’s hips snapping up, Theo’s thrusting deep, their cocks dragging against your walls, filling you completely. The room was a symphony of filth: the wet, rhythmic slaps of their thrusts, your broken sobs—“Oh god, can’t, please, fuck, I’m done”—their grunts, Theo’s Italian curses, Mattheo’s filthy encouragements. “Take it, you can take it,” Mattheo murmured, his thumb circling your clit, sparking another orgasm, your body shaking, cunt and ass clenching around them, juices gushing down your thighs. “Five,” they growled together, their voices raw.

You were gone, fucked-out, babbling nonsense—“No more, fuck, can’t take it, please, oh god, can't — again”—your body betraying you, orgasms crashing one after another, six, seven, eight, you couldn’t count, each one tearing through you, leaving you trembling, tears streaming, drool pooling, your mind a haze of pleasure and pain, so close to the edge of blacking out. “Look at her, Mattheo, fucking ruined,” Theo rasped, his cock twitching as your ass clamped down, another climax making you shudder. “Good girl, so fucking tight,” Mattheo groaned, his fingers slick with your release, his hips faltering as your pussy milked him.

They didn’t stop, pushing you past reason, your body a trembling, oversensitive mess. “One more, baby, give us one more,” Theo growled, spanking you again, the sting sharp, your cunt spasming as another orgasm hit, your screams silent now, throat raw. “Nine,” Mattheo counted, his voice breaking as he thrust up, spilling into you, hot and thick. Theo followed, his cum flooding your ass, his groans vibrating through you as your body shook, another climax—ten, maybe more—leaving you limp, barely conscious. Cum and arousal leaked around both of their shafts, both snapping their hips a few more times in a symphony of moans.

They slowed, finally, your body boneless between them, their cum dripping from you, mixing with your slick, soaking the sheets. The air was heavy with sex—sweat, musk, the sharp scent of your release, their cologne. Mattheo pulled out first, his hands gentle now, conjuring a warm, damp cloth to clean you, the softness a stark contrast to his earlier brutality. Theo eased you onto his chest, his lips brushing your forehead, whispering, “Brava, amore, so fucking perfect.” Mattheo tucked a blanket around you, his fingers brushing your hair, murmuring, “Took us like a fucking champ, princess.”

He lounged on the plush velvet armchair by the fire, one leg slung lazily over the armrest, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The glow of the flames danced across his tanned skin, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw and the messy curls that fell into his eyes. He was watching you now, his gaze intense, a slow smirk tugging at his lips as he set his wine glass down with a deliberate clink.

“C’mere,” he said, his voice low and husky, carrying that familiar edge of command that sent a shiver down your spine. He patted his thigh, the motion casual but loaded with intent. “Now, love.”

You smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter, your bare feet padding across the cool hardwood floor. “So demanding,” you teased, but the heat in his gaze pulled you in like gravity. When you reached him, his hands were on you in an instant, strong fingers curling around your hips as he tugged you down onto his lap. You landed with a soft gasp, straddling his thighs, your knees sinking into the chair’s plush cushions. His grip tightened, possessive, grounding you against him as his lips curved into a wicked grin.

“This fucking tank top,” he growled, his voice rough with accusation, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the hem of the fabric. “You’ve been torturing me all night, you know that? Sitting there, looking like this, in front of my mates.” His eyes dropped to your chest, where the thin cotton hugged the swell of your breasts, the faint outline of your nipples just visible in the firelight. His pupils dilated, swallowing the warm brown of his irises.

You laughed, the sound catching in your throat as his hands moved higher, cupping you gently through the fabric, his thumbs grazing with a reverence that made your pulse race. “It’s just a top, Matty,” you murmured, threading your fingers through his curls, soft and slightly damp from the warmth of the room. You gave a gentle tug, and he groaned, his head tipping back slightly, throat bobbing.

“Just a top,” he mocked softly, his smirk devilish. “You’ve no idea the state you’ve put me in.” His hands slipped beneath the tank top, calloused palms warm against your skin as they slid up, lifting the fabric. He didn’t bother pulling it off entirely—just bunched it above your chest, exposing you to his gaze. The cool air hit your skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his stare, dark and ravenous.

“Merlin, look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick with awe. His hands cupped your breasts, fingers tracing their curves with a tenderness that bordered on worship. “So fucking perfect.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin at the swell of one breast, and then his mouth closed over you, warm and wet, a slow, deliberate lap of his tongue that made you gasp. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt straight to your core, your hips shifting against his lap.

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your skin as he sucked gently, his tongue swirling over your nipple with a devotion that made your head spin. “I love these,” he mumbled, his words muffled against your flesh, lips moving against the sensitive peak. “So soft… so fucking perfect.” His voice was low, almost incoherent, as he lapped again, slow and teasing, his stubble grazing your skin, adding a delicious friction. He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your damp skin. “Could stay here forever, just like this, tasting you.”

Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging harder, and he moaned, the sound raw and desperate, as he switched to your other breast, his tongue flicking before he sucked again, deeper this time. The wet heat of his mouth, the way his lips closed around you, sent waves of pleasure through you, your body arching into him. “Mattheo,” you whimpered, your voice trembling, and he growled softly, his teeth grazing ever so slightly, just enough to make you squirm.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he rasped, his words slurred around your skin, his lips never fully leaving you. “Love how you feel… love how you taste.” His hands roamed, one staying at your chest, thumb teasing the now-wet peak he’d left behind, while the other slid to your lower back, pressing you closer. You could feel him, hard and straining beneath you, the evidence of his desire only amplifying the heat pooling in your core.

He pulled back for a moment, his lips shiny, eyes hooded as he looked up at you. “You’re my everything,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, rough with need. “I love you so fucking much.” Before you could respond, his mouth was on you again, kissing, lapping, sucking with a fervor that was both tender and insatiable. His hands gripped you tighter, like he couldn’t get close enough, like he wanted to consume you entirely.

You rocked against him, the friction of your hips against his drawing a low groan from his throat, his lips faltering for just a moment before he dove back in, mumbling against your skin, “Can’t get enough… never enough.” The fire crackled behind you, its warmth a faint echo of the heat between you, the air thick with the scent of cedar, wine, and the raw intimacy of the moment.

It should’ve been a joke.

Breakfast in the Slytherin common room always buzzed with the easy arrogance of survival — seventh years lounging in half-buttoned shirts, steam rising from teacups, laughter sharper than the clink of cutlery. Pansy was draped over the arm of the sofa, her hair immaculate despite the hour, nails painted the same poison-green as her tie. She tapped those nails against the rim of her china cup as if the entire table were her stage.

“You couldn’t even dream of it,” she purred, eyes glittering with mischief. “Theo and Mattheo at the same time? Please. You’d cry uncle before they even started.”

The boys snorted around their toast and pumpkin juice. Blaise nearly choked from laughing too hard, Draco muttered something about Pansy being insufferable as usual, and Mattheo — sprawled with his boots on the table — smirked lazily, like he didn’t mind his cock being the centerpiece of conversation. Theo, of course, only arched a brow from behind his book, his hand tightening on the inside of your thigh.

The whole thing should’ve rolled off you like every other one of Pansy’s dramatic little digs. But her words lodged somewhere deep, curling tight in your chest. Because maybe it wasn’t impossible. Maybe it wasn’t laughable. Maybe the thought of being caught between your boyfriends — Theo with his control, Mattheo with his chaos — made heat stir low in your stomach instead of embarrassment.

And now here you were. In their dorm. Heart pounding, thighs pressed tight together, with both of your boyfriends staring at you like you’d lost your mind.

The curtains of Theo’s bed were drawn back, candlelight throwing sharp shadows across his cheekbones, his book tossed aside for once. Mattheo lounged half-sprawled in his desk chair, curls a mess, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the bruises he still hadn’t let you heal from Quidditch.

Both of them were yours. Everyone knew it by now — the way Theo held your hand absentmindedly under the table while Mattheo kissed your throat shamelessly above it, the way you slipped into their dorm more often than not and didn’t reemerge until morning. But never together. Well, not like this.

Your throat worked as you whispered it. “I want both of you.” The silence was deafening. Theo blinked once, lips parting, while Mattheo actually laughed — low, disbelieving, tipping his head back in that careless way that made your chest ache.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, smirk sharp, “you’re joking.”

Except you weren’t. You could feel it written across your face, in the heat crawling up your neck, in the way your fingers twisted in the hem of your skirt.

Theo sat forward, his gaze cutting through the room, assessing, weighing. He studied you the way he always did, like he could unravel your thoughts with just his eyes. “She’s not.”

Mattheo’s laughter died in his throat, his smirk faltering when he caught the honesty in Theo’s voice — and in yours, the way you looked at them both like you’d never wanted anything more.

His chair creaked as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes dark and hungry now. “You want us both at the same time?” His tongue flicked against his teeth, disbelief softening into something far more dangerous.

“Baby, you don’t have to let Pansy pressure you into this.” Theo’s voice was steady, soft in the way only he could be when the rest of the world was loud. His hand reached out, tugging you gently between his open thighs. The heat of him seeped through the fabric of your skirt, grounding you, while his thumb stroked a slow line against your hip.

“I’m not,” you whispered, breath catching. His scent — smoke and expensive soap — filled your head, made your resolve stronger. You tilted your chin, glancing past his shoulder to where Mattheo was watching, dark eyes locked on you like a predator who’d just realized the prey wasn’t running.

Theo didn’t laugh. He just tilted his head, gaze unreadable, and closed his book with a quiet snap. “Do you know what you’re asking for, sweetheart?” His voice was velvet, but his eyes burned. “Mattheo and I aren’t… gentle together.”

Your pulse stuttered, heat prickling up your spine, but you didn’t look away. “I know,” you whispered, though your voice wavered. “I want it anyway.”

Behind you, Mattheo let out a sharp exhale — half disbelief, half arousal — and leaned forward on his elbows, forearms braced on his knees. His grin was crooked, dangerous. “Fuck, you’re serious.” He dragged a hand through his curls, shaking his head like he was trying to wake himself from a dream. “Pansy’s going to combust when she finds out.”

Theo shot him a warning glance, then refocused on you. His long fingers traced idle circles against your hip, deceptively calm. “You’re Mattheo’s girl,” he murmured, his thumb pressing into the soft curve of your waist. “And mine. Which means if we do this, you don’t get to shy away from the truth. You say it. You look at us and tell us exactly what you want.”

The challenge in his words sent a shiver through you. Your lips parted, but no sound came out — not until Mattheo leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Go on, pretty girl,” he rasped. “Tell us how you want you want us.”

You shifted where you stood between Theo’s knees, nerves buzzing under your skin. His book still sat closed on the side table, his hand heavy at your waist, his gaze too steady. You swallowed, leaned into him just enough, and whispered, “Please, Teddy?”

Theo’s jaw flexed. He could deny anyone else in the world — but not you, not when you looked at him like that, all puppy-dog eyes and trembling lips. His fingers tightened, dragging you closer until your knees brushed the armchair. He didn’t answer right away, but you saw the decision flicker across his face.

For a moment, they just looked at you — at their girl, asking to be split open, ruined in a way no one else had ever dared. Mattheo’s smirk was all teeth. He stood, already tugging at his belt, eyes dark with hunger. “C’mere, princess. Let’s see if you can back that mouth up.”

Theo was the one to start you slow. He always was. He stripped you carefully, unhurried, his knuckles grazing your skin like he had all the time in the world. Every button undone, every piece of clothing peeled away, was another chance for his fingers to linger, for his mouth to press a lazy kiss against your shoulder, your collarbone, your throat. By the time he drew you into his lap, you were already trembling.

Your thighs spread wide across his, knees digging into the mattress as he held your hips steady. He was warm everywhere, broad hands tracing the dip of your spine as he aligned himself at your slick entrance. His lips brushed your ear when he spoke, voice low enough to make you shiver.

“Breathe, sweetheart. You know I’ll take care of you.”

The stretch made your head fall back against his shoulder, a gasp spilling from your lips as he filled you inch by inch, never rushing, never forcing. Theo groaned quietly, his breath catching as he sank deeper, his hands locking around your waist to keep you grounded.

From the edge of the bed, Mattheo watched with dark, hungry eyes, belt forgotten on the floor. His hand raked through his curls as his lips curled into that familiar, wolfish grin. “Merlin, you look good like that,” he rasped. “But don’t get too comfortable, baby. You’ve still got me to take.”

And then he pushed. Thick, relentless, filling you until your nails carved crescents into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you gasped, back arching, body stretching around him. Theo’s hands came up to caress your hip, rubbing comforting circles as if he was nervous for you.

Every inch slid deeper until you were seated fully in his lap, thighs trembling against his. His breath caught, his own composure slipping as he groaned against the back of your neck. “That’s it,” Theo whispered, lips ghosting your shoulder. “Every inch.”

In front of you, you watch the mattress dip. Mattheo had finally moved, his weight pressing into the bed as he crawled closer, his heat brushing against your chest. His hand smoothed down your neck, soothing for all of a second before he gave your breast a sharp squeeze.

“Beautiful,” he muttered darkly, dragging the head of his cock along your slick folds, the motion making you whimper on Theo’s lap. “Split open on him, and you’re still dripping for more. Greedy little thing.”

Theo’s lips brushed your hair, but his eyes locked on Mattheo’s over your shoulder — a silent exchange, practiced, protective. “Go slow,” Theo warned.

Mattheo only smirked, teeth flashing. “Don’t I always?”

Mattheo’s hand slid under your hip, firm and insistent. “Turn,” he murmured against your ear, his breath hot, teasing. You tilted back slightly, confusion flickering before Theo’s grip steadied your waist, guiding you. Slowly, carefully, you shifted so your back was flush against Mattheo’s chest, legs straddling Theo’s lap.

Now you were sandwiched between them perfectly — Theo’s cock buried deep inside you, steady and slow, while Mattheo’s hardness pressed into your back, the tip teasing just at the entrance he’d planned to claim. His hands found your hips, holding you firmly against him, while Theo’s hands stayed on your waist and thighs, grounding you.

Mattheo’s breath was hot at your shoulder as he slicked himself with spit. The blunt head of his cock pressed against your other entrance, and your body went taut. Mattheo groaned low. “Merlin, she’s so tight back here.”

Theo’s hands squeezed your hips, thumbs brushing over your clit in rhythm with each tiny, deliberate grind of his hips. “Easy, baby… let it happen,” he murmured, voice ragged, grounding you even as your whole body trembled.

Mattheo’s fingers dug into your waist, pulling you flush against him. “I’ll take it slow doll,” he whispered, the teasing edge in his tone making heat coil low in your belly. With one deliberate push that was not slow at all, he pressed inside, and you gasped, back arching impossibly as Theo’s cock pulsed deep inside you.

The combination was dizzying — Theo’s steady, almost gentle thrusts keeping you present, every inch measured, while Mattheo’s rough, hungry entry made your head spin and chest ache with need.

The stretch was brutal, white-hot, a cry tearing out of you as he breached you inch by inch. “Breathe,” Theo commanded softly, pressing his forehead to yours, thumbs rubbing soothing circles against your hips. His cock filled you perfectly, steady and insistent, grounding you even as your muscles clenched around him.

Mattheo pressed from behind, slick and ready, pushing just enough to tease your back entrance without forcing, brushing the tip along your wet folds. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, the sound vibrating through your spine, sending sparks of heat down to your core. “So fucking perfect for me…”

Theo groaned at the sound, rocking gently into you, each slow thrust coaxing a shudder from your body. “You feel so good, baby. So good for both of us. Mine,” he whispered, catching your gaze, “and his. Only ours.”

Mattheo pressed closer, hands on your hips, dragging you flush against him. “Take it, baby,” he murmured against your ear. “You love it, don’t you? Taking both of us at once.”

The combination — Theo’s steady, grounding pace and Mattheo’s sharp, relentless edge — was dizzying. Every inch, every thrust, every brush of teeth against skin, made your head spin and your body cry out, clinging to them, trembling, lost entirely in the two of them.

Your whole body trembled, pinned between them, filled to the point of breaking. And then they moved.

Theo’s hips rocked slow and deliberate, each inch sending fire curling through your core, while Mattheo pressed in from behind, hard and relentless, dragging you flush against him. The combination of their bodies — one measured, grounding, the other sharp and hungry — had your head spinning, nails digging into Theo’s shoulders as your back arched, pressing into Mattheo’s chest.

“God, you feel so good,” Theo groaned, his voice ragged, forehead resting against yours as he sank deeper.

Your hands fisted in their hair and shoulders, trying to hold onto something as the overwhelming pleasure clawed through you. Every stroke, every press, every whispered word of praise and filthy encouragement made your body tighter, hotter, spiraling.

“Say it,” Mattheo rasped, gripping your hips so hard it left bruises. “Say our names, baby. Say you love it… say you’re ours.”

“I—I’m yours,” you moaned, voice breaking. “Both… yours… Theo… Mattheo…”

Their groans combined with yours, a symphony of lust and need, as Theo’s slow thrusts and Mattheo’s sharp, relentless movements drove you higher, pushing your body closer to the edge with every pass, every brush of teeth and skin, until it all became too much.

“Look at her,” Mattheo rasped, his grip bruising on your hips. “Split open on both of us, still begging for more.”

Your back arched impossibly, nails digging into his shoulders as your hips ground down onto him, desperate for every inch of sensation. Mattheo pressed harder from behind, tip brushing deep as he pressed into your tightness, his own groans vibrating through your spine.

Theo smirked against your throat, lips ghosting over the sensitive skin as he nipped gently. “Not so smug now, are you? Thought you’d prove Pansy wrong?”

Mattheo groaned behind you, pressing in harder, his hips snapping with deliberate force. “Lucky if you can still walk tomorrow,” he rasped, teeth grazing your shoulder. His hands gripped your hips like he was trying to mold you into him completely, and the friction of both of them — one steady, one relentless — had your vision swimming with white specks.

You gasped, hands tangling in Theo’s hair as your knees pressed harder against his thighs, body trembling. “I… I can take it… both of you,” you choked out, voice desperate and needy, heat pooling deep.

Theo’s hands slid from your hips to your thighs, spreading you further, holding you open for Mattheo. “Oh, you can, baby,” he purred.

Your answer was a strangled moan, their names tangled together on your tongue.

Mattheo’s laugh was ragged, almost disbelieving. “She’s ruined, Theo. Fucking ruined.”

Your knees trembled, hips rolling against both of them, moans and cries tangled, broken, desperate as their contrasting rhythms — Theo grounding, Mattheo relentless — tore you apart in the most delicious way.

“Ruined for anyone else,” Theo agreed, thumb pressing against your clit in cruel, perfect circles. His gaze locked on yours, steady and dark, grounding you even as Mattheo’s deep thrusts from behind made your head spin.

Mattheo’s hands gripped your hips, pressing you flush against him, whispering hot and rough against your ear. “Fucking ours, baby…we're all yours. Look at you… taking both of us so well.”

Your climax hit like fire, ripping through you as you screamed, every muscle clenching around them until they cursed in unison. Mattheo’s thrusts turned desperate, Theo’s composure cracked, and the three of you fell apart in a mess of sweat, bruises, and broken sounds.

Mattheo groaned, hips stuttering as he spilled into you from behind, hands still gripping your hips like he couldn’t let go.

You shivered, trembling between them, letting your arms wrap around Theo’s neck as Mattheo pressed into your back. Their hands roamed over you, gentle now, tracing bruised shoulders, slick thighs, and the swell of your breasts, grounding you after the storm of sensation. “God, you’re perfect,” Mattheo muttered, lips brushing your ear.

Theo chuckled softly, tired, breathless. “Never letting anyone else touch you,” he whispered, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple.

You sagged against them, exhausted and sated, chest heaving as you let yourself soak in the warmth, the closeness, the utter mess of being theirs. Between Theo and Mattheo, worshiped, praised, and utterly consumed, you finally felt the delicious, perfect ache of belonging completely.

“Merlin,” Mattheo panted, still trembling. “Pansy’s going to eat her fucking words.”Pansy’s words were already forgotten to you; all that mattered was the heat between you, the worship, the ownership, the utter delicious exhaustion flowing through your veins.

Theo’s lips brushed your temple, his smirk soft but smug. “Staying in my bed or Matt’s?”

Mattheo groaned from behind you, fingers drumming lazily on your hip. “Don’t even think about leaving me out, princess. You know I’ve got dibs too.”

You laughed, breathless, pressing a hand to each of their chests. “How about both?” you teased, voice still thick with the aftershocks of your shared chaos.

I read once that turtle doves stay together for life. A pair, gentle and loyal, always returning to one another even when the seasons pull them apart. I wrote that fact in the margins of my Herbology notes today and immediately felt ridiculous. You probably think things like that are silly. But I like the thought of it-of a love that doesn’t scorch or demand or frighten. Something steady. Something that breathes instead of burns.

You feel like the opposite of that. You’re storms and strong winds and shadows dancing beneath green flames. You’re loud in ways that don’t involve sound. And yet, sitting there with you in the hush of the library, watching snowflakes drift past the window behind you… I felt something shift. Like maybe the storms you carry have soft parts, too. Like maybe there’s a quiet blue sky tucked somewhere inside you that you don’t show anyone.

I wish I didn’t notice these things. I wish they didn’t matter. But they do.

When you leaned over to hand me that book, your fingers brushed mine-barely-and it was the smallest, most electrifying moment of my whole day. Maybe my whole winter. You didn’t pull away right away, either. You hesitated. Just long enough for me to wonder what that meant, and then to scold myself for wondering at all.

I know this crush is one-sided. I know I’m reading galaxies into starlight. But for one quiet afternoon, we sat together like the world wasn’t divided into houses and shadows and expectations. Just… two people sharing warmth while snow floated past the glass.

And I’m going to keep this moment folded in my pocket a little longer. Even if it’s foolish. Especially if it’s foolish.

Yours in the hush between snowflakes,

-

The library was warmer than usual, a pleasant break from the bite of December air that clung to the castle. Snow tapped lightly at the tall arched windows, leaving delicate white lace along the glass. Candles floated in lazy orbits overhead, their flames flickering gold across worn wooden tables. Everything felt hushed, cozy, wrapped in a kind of winter magic that made the whole room seem softer.

She slipped into her usual seat with a stack of books that towered just a little too high for her arms, parchment tucked beneath her elbow. She didn’t expect him to show up. Why would he? He was Mattheo Riddle-storm-eyed, sharp-edged, and always surrounded by the kind of people who moved through life boldly, fearlessly. She was… not that.

So when the chair across from her scraped quietly against the stone floor, she nearly jolted. Mattheo dropped a single textbook on the table, then sat like he belonged there-like he always sat with her on winter afternoons.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just opened his book, ran a hand through his hair (still damp from the snow outside), and leaned back slightly, one knee nudging hers beneath the table. Accidentally or not, she wasn’t sure.

Her heart fluttered anyway.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked suddenly, eyes flicking up to hers. His voice was low, almost soft.

She shook her head too quickly. “N-no. I mean-no, it’s fine.”

“Good,” he murmured, and went back to reading.

Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t the cold, awkward kind. It was warm, like a blanket tucked around shoulders. The kind of silence that feels shared. She dipped her quill into ink and tried to focus on her notes, but her hand drifted toward an empty corner of the parchment. Without thinking, she began doodling-tiny sprigs of holly, clusters of berries, little stars with soft edges.

She didn’t notice him watching until she felt it-the prickle of being seen.

“You always do that?” Mattheo asked, chin now propped on his hand.

She blinked up at him. “Do what?”

A small, amused smile curved his mouth. “Draw little Christmas things everywhere.” He tilted his head toward her parchment. “Even your essays look festive.”

Her cheeks heated. “It’s just a habit. Helps me think.”

“Hm.” He rested his forearm on the table, leaning a bit closer, voice dropping. “I like it.”

For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.

Outside, snowflakes drifted lazily past the windows, glowing gold whenever they crossed paths with candlelight. One landed against the glass behind him, melting slowly into a silver trail. It was almost unfair how the scene framed him-dark hair, pale winter light, a slow, thoughtful expression that softened every sharp line of him.

He didn’t belong in her quiet, gentle world of doodles and warm cocoa and holiday cheer. And yet… here he was. Sitting across from her like this was where he wanted to be.

After a while, he reached for a book and slid it across the table. “You might need this one,” he said.

Their fingers brushed-just barely. But he didn’t pull away.

If anything… he lingered. A heartbeat, maybe two. Just long enough for warmth to bloom in her chest in a way she tried so hard not to believe in.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

Mattheo nodded, eyes flicking briefly to her lips before he forced himself back to his parchment, jaw tightening like he’d noticed too much.

They studied like that for nearly an hour, exchanging quiet comments, subtle glances, soft smiles that felt almost accidental. When the candles flickered lower and the librarian started her end-of-day sweep, he stood and shrugged into his cloak.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, not quite casual, not quite hopeful.

Her breath caught. “If you want.”

He smirked faintly. “I do.”

“Merlin. Sometimes I wonder why I ever took NEWT Potions.” Pansy rolled her eyes, her short bob swishing as she walked, seemingly reflecting the sassiness in her tone. “Slughorn can go on.”

You nodded emphatically. “Right? I mean, I know we’ll need to be prepared for our exams next year, but forty-five minutes on the uses of Lethe River Water?”

Nearby, you saw Draco, Blaise, and Daphne turn down the corridor in the direction of the library. You and Pansy had planned on revising as well once Potions was over, but at the moment, your brain was feeling full to the brim.

Thankfully, she vocalized your very thoughts. “I couldn’t possibly get any studying done. I need a break.”

“Me too. If I see one more mention of antidote properties, I’ll cry.”

“You should come to my room,” she offered. “I’ve done some redecorating. Besides, I’ve got to tell you what happened in Transfig today.”

“Sold,” you agreed. “I’ll bring the snacks; I’ve still got some Bertie Bott’s from last Hogsmeade trip.”

Although Pansy was a newer friend of yours, the two of you had bonded remarkably quickly. You’d always felt a bit intimidated by the Slytherins and their insular, cold reputation. But when you and Pansy had been paired up for an assignment in Astronomy the previous year, you’d realized that she wasn’t half as unpleasant as you’d feared – in fact, she was a lot of fun to talk to. She gave great advice and had a snarky sense of humor that always made you laugh.

After arguments and a few friend break-ups had dissolved your previous friend group, you’d found a natural home for yourself amongst Pansy and her friends. The other Slytherins, as well, had proved welcoming. In the beginning, you sensed that they knew they would face Pansy’s wrath if they tried to freeze you out. But once they’d truly warmed up to you, you’d grown close with several of them. Daphne was your go-to if you needed style advice or a pep talk. Enzo was a sweetheart who was great at cheering you up when you were feeling down. Blaise always knew exactly what to do for fun when you and Pansy were bored.

And Mattheo…

If anyone had told you a couple of years ago that you would one day call the son of Voldemort a friend, you would’ve told them they’d gone mad. He was the Slytherin who you’d found the most intimidating at first, unapologetically surly and quick-tempered. But little by little, you’d noticed the walled-off, Slytherin-king persona slipping back until you caught a glimpse of the gentler side that he was typically loathe for others to see. Behind the untouchable Riddle boy was a friend who was loyal to a fault and would have your back no matter the situation. Next to Pansy, he was the first one to celebrate your victories and be there for you when you were hurting, comforting you with his presence even if he wasn’t sure what to say. And in all the photos you’d taken of you and your friends, he was the one smiling the brightest.  

It was those qualities that made your heart start to melt a little bit every time he was around. You’d realized a few weeks ago that you’d started fancying him a bit. Of course, you knew that it was silly – he’d shown no signs that he felt the same way about you. He was a friend, and that was all. You were trying to avoid feeling sad about it, hoping that your little crush would pass sooner rather than later. To speed the process along, you’d refrained from admitting your feelings to Pansy or the rest of your friend group. Speaking about it would only make it more real.

As you and Pansy reached the Slytherin common room and she spoke the password, the door swung open. Before you sat the one boy that you’d been wishing would leave your mind. Your heart fluttered traitorously as you caught sight of Mattheo’s dark curls and mischievous grin. He was sitting on the couch nearest to the door, laughing with Theo over a game of Wizard’s Chess.

“You lot skive off again?” Pansy was raising an eyebrow in their direction as the two of you approached.

As Mattheo turned, his eyes met yours. Immediately, he winked, causing your cheeks to burn furiously before he glanced back at Pansy. “And what about it?” he retorted cheekily. “We weren’t feeling well. All of this homework is making us ill.”

“’S stressful,” Theo agreed, nodding with a mock seriousness as he sacrificed his rook to Mattheo.

“Maybe it wouldn’t be so stressful if you lot would go to class and figure out what’s going on for yourselves.” Pansy rolled her eyes. “Don’t think we’re giving you our Potions notes again.”

“Right.” Mattheo pivoted back to you. His eyes widened as he took on a puppy-dog expression, pouting slightly. “Angel…” The heat beneath your cheeks immediately intensified at the sound of the nickname. “Would you please lend us your Potions notes from today? Please, so that Theo and I don’t fail?”

“I…” You were completely, embarrassingly hypnotized by his adorable brown eyes. Before you could say anything else, you were interrupted by Pansy’s scoff.

“Honestly.” She glanced at you, shaking her head lightly. “You’re way too nice.” Taking you by the wrist, she stepped away from the boys. “Come on. They can go revise with the others if they want to catch up so badly.”

Snapped out of your trance, you followed Pansy up the stairs to the girls’ dormitories, praying that Mattheo wouldn’t think too hard about the effect he’d just had on you. As you entered the room she shared with Daphne and the other sixth-year Slytherin girls, you tried to put him out of your mind.

“Oh!” you exclaimed as you stepped into the room.

Pansy and Daphne’s side of the dormitory looked completely different than it had the last time you’d visited. Your unfortunate crush temporarily forgotten, you glanced around, studying your surroundings. The unwieldy antique dresser in the corner had been sanded and repainted to a sleek black with silver details, there was a new vintage armchair in between the beds, and the haphazard posters and Slytherin Quidditch pendants that had previously hung on the walls had been replaced with a beautiful photo collage.

“Do you like it?” Pansy’s voice lilted with excitement.

“It’s gorgeous!” You stepped further into the room, taking in the changes. “This chair looks so much better than that statue that was there before. Oh, and is this mirror new?”

She nodded, beaming at the full-length, silver-framed mirror. “Can you believe we didn’t have a full-length mirror until now? I mean, there’s one in the bathroom, but still.”

Pulling back the bedcurtains, the two of you sat down on Pansy’s bed. You opened the bag of Every-Flavor Beans that had previously occupied the side pocket of your schoolbag and listened eagerly as she began to tell you about the events that had occurred in that day’s Transfiguration class.

“…and then – you wouldn’t believe – Max is trying to ask Sophie to Hogsmeade, meanwhile Bella is freaking out. Understandable, really. I mean, she was into him for so long, they had their thing, they fell out, she and Sophie were friends…But the whole time, they’re supposed to be turning their feather dusters into ferrets. When Professor McGonagall realized they weren’t doing it, she was furious.”

“I’ll bet.” You could see the look on McGonagall’s face perfectly in your mind. Max and Bella had already driven the professors (and half the castle) mad with their loud, public arguments earlier in the year. You could only imagine that McGonagall was beside herself when she had to deal with the continuance.

“But that’s the best part.” Pansy’s eyes lit up as she leaned closer to you, grinning slyly. “All three of them have detention tonight. Together.”

Your eyes widened. “Merlin.”

“I know. Daph recons one of them’ll be in the Hospital Wing before it’s over.”

You nodded in agreement. Knowing the three Gryffindors, it was certainly a possibility. “Dunno how they manage to share a common room without killing each other. For that matter, Bella and Sophie share a dormitory.”

Pansy grimaced. “Sophie might be waking up with her eyebrows hexed off tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

As you picked up a handful of Every-Flavor Beans, your eyes wandered towards the photo collage on the wall in between Pansy and Daphne’s beds. Now that you looked at it more closely, you saw that it was comprised largely of photos of them with you and your friends, interspersed with a few solo pictures and images from their various holidays over the years. You would’ve figured that all of the moving pictures together would’ve been visually overwhelming, but somehow it worked, the movement flowing through the collection like a wave.

Nodding towards the collage, you popped a peach-flavored bean in your mouth. “That looks really good, Pans.”

“Thanks!” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled. “You took some of those photos, you know.”

You stood, taking a few steps toward the wall so that you could see the photographs, and you saw that she was right. There was one in the top left of you and her in the stands before a Quidditch match, identical Slytherin scarves on your necks. Near the center sat a second photo of you, her, Daphne, Draco, and Blaise at Greengrass Manor over the summer holidays, playing Exploding Snap in the parlor as you waited for Mattheo, Theo, and Enzo to get out of bed.

Automatically, your eyes glided over to the picture next to it. There, you saw Pansy, Theo, Draco, and Mattheo sitting under a tree on the Hogwarts grounds. A smile stretched across your face as you realized that they looked much younger. The photo had been captured long before you’d known them – perhaps in Second or Third Year. Of course, you could vaguely remember seeing them across the corridors in passing back then, but the picture was a stark reminder of how young they’d once been. It was like seeing the face of someone you’d last visited many years ago.

“Aww! You guys were so little!” You couldn’t help but giggle at the youthful roundness of Draco’s face and the freckles dotting across Theo’s nose. Younger Pansy was sporting a straight-across fringe that she’d long since banished.

“Oh, Salazar.” Pansy shook her head, her cheeks turning slightly pink as she gave a wry laugh.

“Come on, the fringe wasn’t so bad!” Grinning, you patted her playfully on the shoulder. As you took another glance back at the photo, however, it was Mattheo who caught your eye. “Oh, Merlin!” you exclaimed. “Why…why does he look like that?”

Younger Mattheo had an expression on his face that you’d never even realized he could make. It was…well, one could call it a smile, but that would be stretching the meaning of the word within an inch of its life. The expression was more like a grimace, really, or a wince. He looked as though he were being forced at wandpoint to stand in front of the camera.

Next to you, Pansy giggled. “He always looks like that!” When you glanced over at her quizzically, she added, “in photos, at least. He hates having his photo taken.”

You frowned. “Really?”

She nodded emphatically. “Yeah, we call it his Avada-me face.” With a laugh, she squinted at the old photo again, taking in the strange expression. “I really thought you would’ve noticed, you’ve got a camera. Right ordeal, getting a photo of him.”

Shaking your head, you stepped toward Pansy’s bed, where your school bag sat. “Wait, but he knows how to smile in a photo.” You reached into your bag and pulled out your camera case. Inside it sat your light blue, rectangular camera, as well as several stray photographs. There was one in particular that you’d been saving, pulling it out of the case every so often when you found yourself unable to resist those fluttery, warm feelings you got at the thought of him. You pulled it out now, holding it out to Pansy in the afternoon light. “See?”

In the photo, you and Mattheo were by yourselves, standing near the Black Lake where you’d gone on a walk that day. It had been mid-September, with the weather still passably warm. You’d turned your camera around to capture the two of you and felt him pull you close, his breath tickling your ear. The picture showed him wrapping his arms around you, his lips nearly grazing your temple as he grinned from ear to ear. You were laughing, leaning into his touch.

As Pansy took in the photograph, her eyebrows shot halfway up her forehead. “Are you serious?”

Blinking with alarm, you took a step back as she thrust the photo back into your hand. “I’m…sorry?”

She laughed incredulously, shaking her head. “No, no, don’t be sorry. I’m glad someone’s finally done it, I just…” She turned back to the photo wall, her heeled boots stamping irritably against the stone floor. “I’ve been trying for years to get this boy to smile in one photograph! Just one!” A huff rumbled from deep in her throat. “And instead I get this photo!” She pointed to an image of her, Blaise, Mattheo, and Theo in the French Riviera from several years previously, in which everyone was grinning cheerfully except for Mattheo, who was clenching his teeth as though he’d just had a cavity filled. “And this one!” Her finger landed resoundingly on a picture of the Slytherins in the Hogwarts common room, where once again, everyone was smiling except for Mattheo, who’d opted to hide his face behind a couch cushion. “And this one!” The final photo showed her and Mattheo together at the Quidditch World Cup before their Third Year. In this one, Mattheo was outright glaring at the camera, his expression nearing a snarl.

“I…I don’t know what I did.” You shrugged, your lips pressed together in confusion. “He wanted to take that photo! It was his idea.”

“It was his – oh, honestly.” She huffed again, snatching the picture back from you and stomping towards the door. You had no idea where she was going, but you followed. The two of you practically did everything together – and, admittedly, you felt a slight twinge of nerves in your stomach at the thought of letting the photo out of your sight. You would hate to lose track of it.

It didn’t take the two of you long to descend the stairs. When you reached the common room, Theo was nowhere to be seen, and Mattheo was sitting alone. She stormed straight up to him, thrusting the photo under his nose. You stood back an arm’s length. Though you weren’t sure what was happening, you knew better than to get in the way of your friend’s wrath. Besides, it gave you time to quell the nervous pounding of your heart that seemed to take hold every time Mattheo was around.

He turned his head towards her, raising a single eyebrow. “Yes?”

In response, she rolled her eyes. “So you can smile in a photo.”

Finally, Mattheo glanced down, seeming to comprehend what exactly was being thrust into his vision. He studied the picture for a moment as your stomach flip-flopped slightly. “Never said I couldn’t.”

Pansy pursed her lips. “In fact, apparently you even ask for her to take your photo, huh?”

Turning, he looked at you. A small smile stretched across his lips when your eyes met his, and you felt your cheeks heat up, his gaze as intoxicating as ever. “From time to time,” he murmured without looking away.

“Seriously?”

Her exclamation echoed across the common room, attracting the stairs of numerous students who were either in the midst of studying or talking to their friends.

Mattheo shrugged in response. “Sorry, Pans.”

“Hmph!” She rounded on him. “Oh, you’d better be!” Extending a single pointer finger, she waved it in his face. “Six years! Six years of being your friend, and in every photo I have of you, you look as though you’re being held captive! Why?”

To his credit, he seemed remarkably unphased by her outburst. You knew your friend was just being dramatic, she wasn’t actually mad, but she’d still reached a remarkable volume that you thought of as her ‘wrangling the boys’ yell. He simply looked back at her, scrunching his nose slightly.

“You know I don’t like having my photo taken. It’s annoying, having to pause everything you’re doing just to sit for a photo.”

You felt a slight pang of guilt at that, given you were usually the first one in your friend group to suggest taking a picture together when all of you were hanging out. You wished he would’ve told you he didn’t like it – but instead, he’d asked for a photo of you two together.

The next words out of Pansy’s mouth were exactly the question that had been nagging in the back of your mind. “Well, why don’t you mind when she does it?” She gestured sharply in your direction.

Mattheo’s gaze glided languidly towards you, and for a second you could’ve sworn he was looking you up and down. Finally, he winked. Your heartbeat stuttered as you bit down on the edge of your lip.

“I like giving pretty girls what they want.”

Your cheeks were on fire, and from the way he was smirking, he knew it. The moment, however, only lasted until you processed the resounding clonk of Pansy smacking him round the back of the head.

“You flirt! You’re so annoying.” She let out a scoff, turning on her heel. Thrusting the photo back into your hand, she stormed off, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “boys, ugh” under her breath.

The echo of her heels against the stone seemed to linger in the common room after she’d disappeared up the stairs. You were frozen, unsure whether to follow her or remain in the common room. Mattheo was wincing slightly, rubbing the back of his head.

“I – um, I’m sorry I’ve been taking so many photos,” you finally said, breaking the silence. “I didn’t realize you didn’t like them.”

At the sound of your voice he turned towards you, his gaze softening as he looked at you. He shook his head. “I meant what I said, Angel. I like making you happy.”

You lowered your gaze, unable to resist the pull of the grin that tugged at your lips. “Well, thanks. I – I know it’s a bit sentimental, but I like having them.”

He grinned, his dark eyes sparkling in the lamplight. “C’mere.” He patted the seat next to him and you obliged, your heart thundering in your chest. “I really like that photo.” Throwing an arm over your shoulders, he pulled you close. “Can I see it again?”

When you finally returned to Pansy’s dormitory sometime later, a bashful grin on your face and your lips puffy from Mattheo’s kisses, she didn’t even say anything. Rather, she laughed dryly, rolling her eyes.

“What?” You asked, trying and failing to play off your appearance as you giggled.

“Nothing.” She shook her head lightly, a smile on her face. “I should’ve known. The second I saw him smiling in a photo, I should’ve known.”