So can we skip to the good part?

The corridors of Hogwarts had never felt longer.

Not in the metaphorical sense.

In the soul-crushing, gut-twisting, every-damn-step-makes-you-later kind of way.

You were late.

Again.

And not just five-minutes-casually-stroll-in kind of late. No. You were sprinting-at-risk-of-death, McGonagall-will-actually-murder-you-in-front-of-the-class kind of late.

Your arms were full. Books stacked haphazardly against your chest, rolls of parchment threatening to slip between your fingers, and a quill stuck in your hair like a forgotten soldier. Your house robe flapped wildly behind you like a cape caught in a storm, your tie was loose and slightly crooked, and your left shoelace? Completely untied—again. But you had no time for that. No time for anything.

Your bag bounced awkwardly on your shoulder with every clumsy step, and a piece of toast (half-buttered, slightly burnt) was hanging between your teeth—because even when you were late, a Hufflepuff did not skip breakfast.

“Shit—excuse me—! Coming through!” you yelped as you sped past a pair of 2nd years, who jumped out of the way like you were a rogue bludger.

Your heart pounded, lungs burning as you bolted down the hallway, murmuring rushed apologies to everyone you weaved past.

“Move—sorry—late—don’t hex me—!”

A few students glanced at you in confusion, some in concern. You were a blur of panic and parchment. An adorable, chaotic mess of golden hues and scuffed boots, tripping over your own feet as you tried to remember where the hell Transfiguration was even held today.

And then—

The turn.

The worst corridor in all of Hogwarts. Narrow. Slippery. Cursed by Merlin himself, probably.

You swung around the corner at full speed—

And collided with something solid.

Hard.

There was no warning.

No time to stop.

One second you were running, the next—

CRASH.

Books exploded out of your arms. Your toast flew. You fell backwards with a loud, winded “oof!”, hitting the stone floor hard enough to knock the breath out of your lungs. Your elbow scraped against the flagstone, and a ripple of pain shot through your side.

Scrolls rolled. Notes floated through the air. Your Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook skidded halfway down the hall.

You blinked, stunned, trying to remember which direction was up.

And then a voice.

Low.

Sharp.

Already irritated.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Your blood went cold.

That voice.

You pushed yourself upright, wincing as your bag finally gave up and slumped to the floor. Your hands reached blindly to gather your fallen things, not even looking up yet.

“I—Merlin—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I wasn’t looking, I swear I didn’t see—”

The shadow over you grew darker.

“Do you always run through corridors like a lunatic, or are you just blind?”

That voice. That tone.

You knew it.

Everyone knew it.

You looked up—

—and your heart stopped.

Mattheo Riddle.

Your stomach dropped through the castle floor.

Of all people to body-check at full speed, it just had to be him.

Him. The boy who could silence a room with a stare. The storm behind the green eyes. The sixth-year Slytherin who was constantly in detention and yet always managed to look like he owned the place. Known for black coffee, black coats, biting sarcasm and wicked smirks. Dark curls. Sharpened jaw. The smell of cigarettes and pine.

Mattheo Riddle wasn’t someone you just bumped into. He was the person people avoided.

And yet here you were—on the floor, trembling like a kicked bunny, and he was standing above you, glaring like he’d just been hexed.

You fumbled, crawling on your knees to snatch up your papers. Your hands shook. Your thoughts scrambled like marbles on the floor.

You didn’t dare look at him again.

Until you had to.

Your book—the one with your scribbled name on the cover and a few heartfelt doodles in the margins—was in his hand.

He crouched slightly, picking it up, fingers adorned with silver rings glinting in the morning light.

You lunged for it.

Your fingers brushed his.

And in that exact moment—

Time. Stopped.

It wasn’t poetic. It was terrifying.

Because the world suddenly went quiet. Everything blurred. Your lungs forgot how to work.

And when your eyes finally met his—really met them—

Mattheo’s entire world flipped sideways.

He froze.

His scowl faltered.

For a brief, impossible second, Mattheo Riddle forgot where he was.

Because you… You were—

Radiant.

Not in the obvious way.

Not like Fleur Delacour or those impossibly perfect Beauxbatons girls.

No.

You were something different.

Something real.

With your hazel doe-eyes, glossy from panic and slightly glassy from the run, framed with lashes so long it should be illegal. Your cheeks were flushed a deep rose from the sprint, sun-kissed skin glowing under the filtered morning light pouring in from the arched windows behind you. A light dusting of freckles danced across the bridge of your Roman nose, and your bottom lip was red—bitten anxiously, shaped like a soft little heart.

Your sun-kissed skin glowed, warm and flushed from running, a light sheen of sweat on your collarbone catching the light. And freckles—freckles, like stars, scattered across the bridge of your nose and cheeks.

There was a wild curl of hair stuck against your forehead, and for some reason, Mattheo wanted to reach out and fix it. His hands itched to touch your face.

You looked like you’d just fallen out of a damn dream.

Your face was a goddamn poem.

His brain refused to reboot.

He had never seen someone so soft. So real. You looked like warmth personified and chaos in a bottle. Like you’d trip down stairs and then apologize to the stairs. And he hated how badly he wanted to keep looking at you.

Your robes were still slightly twisted from the fall, your notes still falling around you, and yet somehow—you looked like a painting come to life.

His jaw clenched. His mouth opened—then closed.

“I-I’m so sorry,” you suddenly said again, lowering your gaze as you reached forward to take your book from his hand. “I didn’t mean to ruin your morning—Gods, I feel awful, I didn’t even see where I was!”

And then you spoke again.

“Thank you…” you whispered, voice breathless, barely above a hum.

And Mattheo swore his chest ached.

You stood up, arms full again, more flustered than ever. You didn’t even notice the way he was staring. You were too busy stammering your apologies again.

“I-I’m really sorry—I didn’t mean to waste your time—I just—I’m already late and I can’t afford another detention—I have to go—!”

You bowed slightly, cheeks burning, and turned—

—and ran.

Just like that.

Your cloak whipped behind you, your hair bouncing, your footsteps fading.

Gone.

Mattheo stayed exactly where he was.

The world slowly came back into focus.

Distant murmurs. Footsteps. A nearby classroom door creaking open.

And still, he stood there.

Not moving.

Not blinking.

His hand was still halfway in the air, like your touch had paralyzed him.

Alone.

Dazed.

“…Well,” came a voice from behind him, thick with amusement. “you just got hit by the cupid's arrow.”

Mattheo blinked.

Once. Twice.

The corridor was suddenly too quiet. Too still. The morning chatter of passing students seemed to fade beneath the buzz in his ears. His heart was still pounding like it hadn’t gotten the memo that the chaos was over. His hands remained stiff at his sides, one of them still twitching slightly from the lingering phantom of your touch.

He didn’t turn around.

He just stood there, eyes locked on the empty stretch of hallway where your cloak had fluttered out of sight. Like he expected you to come running back. Like this was just the first half of something.

“Mattheo.”

Still no answer.

Lorenzo huffed dramatically behind him.

“I said,” he repeated, louder now, “you just got hit by the cupid's arrow. In the chest. Dead-on. Right through the soul.”

Mattheo exhaled slowly, like he was trying to come back to his body. He finally turned his head just enough to glance at his friend, but not enough to fully face him.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You’re not fine,” Lorenzo replied, moving forward to stand beside him now. “You look like someone cast a Confundus charm on you and then kissed you on the mouth.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, but it lacked heat. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, am I?” Lorenzo snorted. “You were crouched on the floor staring at him like he’d just fallen from the heavens and personally knocked the devil out of you.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Mate, you didn’t even move for like… a whole minute.”

“I was stunned.”

“You were enchanted.”

Mattheo growled under his breath, brushing invisible lint off his coat.

Before he could tell Lorenzo to shut the hell up, a third voice joined them, smooth and unimpressed.

“What did he do this time?” Theodore Nott asked as he approached, his tone dry like he was already preparing to be disappointed. A book was tucked neatly under his arm, his uniform crisp as ever, and he eyed the two of them like a teacher walking in on misbehaving children.

“Oh, not what he did,” Lorenzo said, lighting up like he’d just found an audience. “It’s what happened to him.”

Mattheo stiffened.

Theodore raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess. He got into another argument with a Ravenclaw prefect? Got caught sneaking out again? Hexed someone’s broomstick?”

“Worse,” Lorenzo said, eyes gleaming. “He just got tackled by a fifth-year Hufflepuff and now he’s in love.”

Theodore’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile just yet. Instead, he looked at Mattheo carefully. Slowly. Measuring.

“You’re joking,” Theodore said.

Mattheo stayed silent.

Lorenzo laughed. “He’s not. It was the most tragically romantic shit I’ve ever seen. Books flying, parchment floating, bodies crashing—it was like watching a badly written love story unfold in real time.”

“Lorenzo.”

“No, listen,” Lorenzo continued, stepping in front of Mattheo like he was delivering a TED Talk. “The kid ran into him like a fucking comet, slammed them both to the floor, scattered his life across the corridor—and instead of yelling? Our boy here just stared.”

Theodore crossed his arms, finally intrigued. “Stared?”

“Like a lovesick Victorian widow, I swear to god. He didn’t even blink when their eyes met.”

“I didn’t fucking stare,” Mattheo finally snapped, face hot.

“Oh really?” Lorenzo drawled. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like your soul got yeeted out of your body and replaced with butterflies.”

Theodore chuckled. “What did he look like?”

Mattheo hesitated.

Lorenzo grinned. “He’s not gonna tell you.”

“Because he doesn’t remember?” Theodore asked, glancing between them.

“Oh, he remembers,” Lorenzo answered before Mattheo could speak. “He’s been quiet because he’s mentally replaying it like it’s a bloody memory orb.”

Mattheo let out a sharp exhale and finally spoke.

“He had…” He paused. His voice dropped a little. “Hazel eyes. Big ones. Kind of panicked-looking. Lashes like—fuck, I don’t even know how to describe them. Dark. Long.”

Theodore’s eyes narrowed just slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“And?”

“Freckles. Light ones. Right here—” Mattheo tapped the bridge of his own nose. “Across his cheeks too.”

Lorenzo looked like he was physically vibrating.

“You’re so far gone.”

“Shut it.”

“And?” Theodore prompted.

Mattheo swallowed.

“Sun-kissed skin,” he muttered, almost begrudgingly. “Like he’d been in the sun too long but it worked for him. There was this curl stuck to his forehead. And he was flushed from running. And his mouth—”

“Oh my god,” Lorenzo whispered.

“—was heart-shaped. Kind of bitten red. He looked like he’d just been kissed and didn’t know what to do with himself.”

Theodore whistled low. “That’s… detailed.”

“I wasn’t trying to memorize him,” Mattheo snapped. “It just—happened.”

Lorenzo practically squealed. “You fell in love in under thirty seconds.”

“I don’t even know his name.”

“That makes it better,” Theodore said casually.

Mattheo looked at him like he was insane.

Theodore shrugged. “Now you have a mystery. Tragic. Beautiful. A real Hogwarts fairy tale.”

“I’m going to hex both of you.”

“Do it,” Lorenzo challenged, grinning. “Hex me with your love-struck frustration.”

Mattheo groaned, dragging his hands down his face.

He couldn’t stop seeing it. Seeing you. The flutter of your lashes. The heat in your cheeks. The way your voice trembled with nervousness but never once turned cold. You weren’t scared of him. Not really. Just flustered. Sweet. Apologizing like you’d bumped into anyone, not someone people called a dark prince behind his back.

And the way your fingers had brushed his—he still felt it. Warm. Soft. Unintentional. But it burned through his entire arm like a brand.

He didn’t even know your name.

But you had looked at him like you didn’t know his reputation. Like you weren’t sizing him up. Like he was just a boy who got in your way. And that… that stuck with him.

And now?

Now the echo of your voice wouldn’t leave his head.

And neither would your fucking freckles.

And why did he feel like he was never going to stop thinking about you?

────────────────────────────────

Later, in the slytherin common room. . .

Theodore had barely finished his third sarcastic comment when the Slytherin common room door burst open like it had been kicked by destiny itself, echoing with the dramatic stomp of leather boots and the clatter of five chaotic souls who never entered a room quietly.

Pansy was first—storming in with wind-blown curls and fury in her walk like she’d just returned from burning down a classroom. Her cloak hit the floor before she even fully crossed the threshold. “Alright, which one of you emotionally constipated pricks is radiating disaster vibes?”

“It's Mattheo,” Blaise answered before anyone else could speak, strolling in after her with the elegance of someone who thought life was a stage and he was the main event. He made finger guns at Lorenzo. “My senses tingled the second he said ‘it wasn’t a big deal.’”

Astoria trailed behind them, popping a sugar quill into her mouth and eyeing the room with mild disinterest. “If this is about Lorenzo crying over the Gryffindor Beater again, I’m going to hex myself into a coma.”

“I told you it’s not me this time!” Lorenzo huffed from his seat, hands flying up defensively.

Draco was next, rolling his eyes as he practically slinked into the room like a cat who knew you had food but didn’t want to ask. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lo. Nobody cries over people with shaggy hair and bad broom control.”

“Excuse you—he’s aggressively attractive—”

“—and aggressively dumb,” Draco snapped.

Pansy didn’t even pause as she spun on her heel and pointed directly at Mattheo, who was still stiff by the fire like a statue sculpted out of regret.

“You.” She narrowed her eyes. “You did something. Or something happened to you. Your aura is all… twitchy.”

Mattheo scowled. “Nothing happened.”

“Your face says otherwise,” Blaise grinned, tossing his bag across the table and draping himself dramatically over the nearest armchair like a Victorian widow.

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Astoria said, climbing onto the back of the sofa and perching like a judgmental raven.

Pansy leaned in closer, squinting. “Why do you look like someone just told you love is real?”

“He does,” Blaise said, gasping.

“Oh no,” Draco deadpanned, turning to Theodore. “Tell me it’s not what I think it is.”

“I’m afraid it is,” Theodore replied calmly, taking a slow sip from a teacup that had somehow materialized in his hands like dark magic. “He got hit. Hard. And not by a spell.”

Pansy gasped like she’d just found out someone was pregnant. “You’re in love?!”

“I’m not in love,” Mattheo snapped too quickly.

“Oh my god, you are,” Astoria said, absolutely beaming now. “This is better than when Lorenzo accidentally proposed to that Ravenclaw in Charms class.”

“That was one time—!”

“You were on one knee, Lorenzo!”

“—she dropped her wand!”

“Shut up!” Mattheo growled, but no one even heard him.

“Okay, someone tell me everything,” Daphne announced, breezing in last, her braid swinging behind her like a cape of judgment. She sat beside Astoria like royalty joining the court. “And don’t leave out the dramatic bits.”

Lorenzo stood up with flair, like he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. “Picture this: corridor. Early morning. Our beloved Mattheo, minding his own brooding business. Suddenly—boom. A Hufflepuff—adorable, frantic, five-foot-something bundle of chaos—slams into him at full speed. Books go flying. Toast hits the floor. Papers flutter like snow. And then—”

“Let me guess,” Pansy interrupted. “They locked eyes and time stopped?”

Mattheo groaned into his hands.

“HE STARED,” Lorenzo said proudly. “Like his soul left his body.”

“I didn’t stare,” Mattheo muttered, but even he didn’t sound convinced, his voice cracking at the end.

“You stared so hard I thought you were about to drop to one knee and ask for his hand in eternal servitude,” Theodore said, not even looking up from his book.

Pansy squinted again. “Wait—did your voice just crack?”

“It did not—”

“MATTY.” She pointed like she was summoning lightning. “You always voice crack when you lie. That was a full octave higher than normal. Don’t test me.”

“You sound like you’re going through second puberty,” Draco added.

Blaise wheezed into the couch. “He’s gone. Cooked. Deep-fried. Fully seasoned. Pack it up.”

Mattheo stood abruptly, eyes wide, hands clenching at his sides.

“I’m not gone.”

“Oh, okay,” Daphne said sweetly. “Then describe him. Calmly. Casually. Like someone who isn’t having a complete gay panic.”

Mattheo clenched his jaw.

Then, grudgingly: “Big hazel eyes. Doe-like. Pretty lashes. Freckles. Brown skin. Roman nose. He smelled like vanilla. He was flushed. His voice was soft. He looked scared, but he still smiled. I think he’s Arabic. Hufflepuff tie. Probably fifth year. Cute.”

The silence was explosive.

Astoria gasped. Blaise fell off the arm of the chair. Draco straight-up wheeled away in his own seat.

“I think I’m ovulating,” Pansy whispered.

Daphne clutched her pearls. “This is the most romantic shit I’ve ever heard from you, and I’ve read your detention letters.”

“I hate it here,” Mattheo muttered.

“I hate how turned on I am by you being this soft,” Blaise wheezed.

There was a beat of pure silence.

Not the normal kind—the oh shit kind.

It was the kind of silence where you could feel everyone in the room turning slowly, mentally rewinding Mattheo’s poetic-ass description like a memory orb on loop. The tension hung in the air like a cursed potion about to explode.

And then—

“Oh my Merlin,” Daphne gasped, eyes wide, voice pitched just slightly higher than usual. “You’re talking about Y/N L/N.”

Mattheo blinked. “Who?”

“Y/N,” she said, already sitting up straighter like a royal gossip gremlin who’d just sniffed blood. “Fifth-year Hufflepuff. Pretty. Quiet. Freakishly polite. Literal angel face. Arabic. Rich. Absolutely glows like he’s got permanent lighting from the gods. That’s him.”

Mattheo stared at her like she’d just said his future was tattooed on his back.

“Oh my god,” Pansy whispered, covering her mouth in glee. “That’s the one?”

“I saw him spill pumpkin juice on himself once and apologize to the table,” Astoria added helpfully.

“Yeah, and remember when that stray garden gnome ran through the courtyard and he cradled it like a wounded animal?” Blaise said.

“Wait,” Daphne continued, as if struck by divine memory. “I once saw him asleep on Cedric Diggory’s shoulder in the Great Hall.”

Mattheo’s head turned so sharply it was a miracle his neck didn’t snap.

Daphne blinked innocently. “What? He looked adorable. All curled up and peaceful—like a baby fox. Cedric didn’t even move, just let him nap there.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched.

His hands curled into fists.

The temperature in the room dropped.

“Oh no,” Blaise whispered, eyes widening. “His expression shifted.”

“Someone’s feeling territorial,” Draco sang.

“I am not jealous,” Mattheo said, voice like stone—and just the slightest pitch too high.

“There it is again,” Pansy gasped. “Voice crack number TWO.”

“Oh, this is so much better than I imagined,” Lorenzo wheezed, clutching his ribs.

Mattheo looked like he was about to punch the fireplace.

“He probably calls Diggory something cute,” Astoria said casually. “Like ‘Ced’ or ‘Ceddy’—”

“STOP TALKING,” Mattheo growled.

“Imagine he giggles at Diggory’s jokes,” Theodore added in the most neutral tone, which made it so much worse.

“Or holds his hand under the table,” Pansy offered sweetly.

“Or draws little hearts around his name in his notes,” Blaise said, eyes gleaming.

“ENOUGH—”

“Or—wait,” Draco said with a grin, “what if he’s seeing him?”

Mattheo stood so fast the chair screeched violently behind him.

His hair was disheveled, his breathing uneven, and the vein in his jaw visibly twitched.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS HE RIGHT NOW.”

“Oh shit,” Astoria whispered. “It’s happening. He’s snapping.”

“You’re gonna storm down there and what?” Pansy laughed. “Glare him into a date?”

“Trip him into your arms again?” Blaise wheezed.

“Throw Cedric into the Black Lake?” Draco offered.

“He’s not seeing Diggory!” Mattheo hissed.

“CRACK,” the whole group shouted.

Mattheo pointed at them, one by one, like he was mentally drafting their execution orders.

“I SWEAR TO SALAZAR,” he seethed. “IF ONE MORE PERSON—”

“Admits you’ve got it bad?” Pansy asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mentions Diggory?” Blaise said.

“Suggests you’ve already written your wedding vows?” Astoria offered.

“Calls him your future husband?” Lorenzo added.

Mattheo threw his hands up, eyes wide with pure, boiling chaos.

“I WILL BURN THIS COMMON ROOM DOWN.”

The next morning . . .

Mattheo Riddle was not known for being quiet.

He was known for brooding in corners like a haunted painting, snapping at anyone who spoke too loud near him, and throwing people into walls if they breathed in his direction the wrong way.

So the fact that he was now crouching behind a fucking suit of armor outside the Great Hall just to get a glimpse of you?

Yeah. That was news.

“Are you hiding?” Pansy hissed from where she and the others stood huddled nearby, all of them peeking like this was a military op and not Mattheo having a public breakdown.

“I’m not hiding,” Mattheo muttered, tugging his coat up like a hood.

“You’re crouching behind Sir Cadogan’s left thigh, bro,” Blaise said. “That’s textbook hiding.”

“Shut up,” Mattheo growled. “Is he in there?”

“He’s at the Hufflepuff table, duh,” Astoria said, peeking in. “Drinking hot chocolate like a baby deer. There’s whipped cream on his nose. I think I just got pregnant.”

“Oh my god, he’s even holding his mug with two hands,” Daphne whispered like she was seeing the face of the divine. “This is disgusting. I love it.”

“Who’s he sitting with?” Mattheo asked, eyes narrowing.

“Diggory’s not there,” Theodore added casually, reading Mattheo’s mind like a damn seer.

Mattheo relaxed. Slightly.

“Do I look—” he glanced down, adjusting his collar, brushing nonexistent dust off his lapel “—casual?”

“You look like you’re stalking prey,” Draco said. “Which is very on-brand, but not helpful.”

“Should I just—walk in?”

“You’re asking us for advice on flirting?” Pansy said, eyebrows raised to the heavens. “Mattheo. Sweetheart. You don’t flirt. You glower until people cry.”

“I don’t want him to cry!”

“Ohhh,” everyone said in unison.

“Shut up,” Mattheo muttered, cheeks flushing as he stood up and finally peeled himself away from the armor.

The doors to the Great Hall loomed like the gates to hell.

He could do this.

He could just walk in, act chill, act normal, get his books or something, bump into you again like it was fate, and start a conversation that didn’t end in you running for your life.

Easy. Totally manageable.

He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and stepped inside.

The Great Hall was warm, filled with the quiet hum of post-breakfast chatter and clinking cutlery. Sunlight spilled through the enchanted ceiling, dancing across your skin as you laughed at something one of your friends said.

Mattheo’s heart stopped.

You were smiling. Bright. Soft. Eyes crinkling, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks, one hand still clutching your cocoa like it was precious cargo.

Your hair was slightly messy. There was a smudge of ink on your wrist. Your tie was a little loose.

And you looked… unfairly good.

Then—your eyes flicked up.

And you saw him.

Mattheo froze.

Your smile softened.

Not a smirk. Not a beam. Just the faintest, shyest curve of your lips—like you were surprised, a little flustered, but maybe… maybe happy?

You tilted your head in recognition. Eyes wide. Curious.

Mattheo’s entire nervous system imploded.

Mattheo’s feet carried him forward automatically. He passed the Ravenclaw table. Then the Gryffindors. His palms were sweating. His brain was static. He didn’t even know what face he was making.

Then—

“Hi,” you said softly as he reached your end of the table.

Mattheo stared.

Say something, his brain screamed.

Something normal. Something cool. Literally ANYTHING—

“I like your mug.”

The silence that followed was devastating.

You blinked.

“Oh—um,” you looked down at it. “It’s just—hot chocolate.”

Mattheo nodded. “Right. Yeah. I like hot chocolate. Sometimes.”

Sometimes? SOMETIMES??

His soul was exiting his body.

“Cool,” you said, and you smiled. Again.

Mattheo swore his knees buckled. Slightly.

And then—over at the Slytherin table?

Hell broke loose.

Astoria looked away with her jaw clenched, face turned violently toward the opposite wall like watching any more of this would make her burst into flames.

Blaise had one palm slapped across his face, muttering, “Oh my fucking god he’s doing it. He’s doing it.”

Lorenzo was folded in half and burying his face into Theodore’s shoulder, while Draco looked like he was trying to crawl inside Theo’s robes to hide from reality.

Theodore wasn’t moving. Not even blinking. He was trying. Trying so hard not to combust. His ears were red. He looked like a single syllable from Mattheo would make him lose the last molecule of sanity he had.

Pansy had gone completely still, her face frozen in a look of pure disgust, like she’d just watched someone confess their undying love to a garden gnome.

And Daphne? Daphne let out the kind of long, exhausted sigh reserved for retired professors and overworked mothers. “Merlin help us all,” she muttered, “he’s actively combusting.”

Back at the Hufflepuff table, Mattheo was still standing there.

Motionless.

Unblinking.

Glitching.

Your smile softened as you tilted your head, offering your hand.

“I’m Y/N.”

Mattheo took your hand like it was made of crystal and he was afraid he’d crush it. Your fingers were warm. Soft. And somehow—comforting.

“…Mattheo.”

You tilted your head. “I know.”

He blinked. “You do?”

“People talk about you,” you said with a shy little smile, thumb brushing your mug.

Mattheo’s heart dropped. “What do they say?”

“That you’re scary.”

Instant tension.

His jaw locked. His shoulders tensed. His stomach twisted.

But you kept talking. And softly—sweetly—you added, “But also that you like dragons.”

He blinked again.

“What.”

You giggled, and it made his breath hitch. “One of your friends said you were reading a book on dragon runes last week.”

Mattheo’s soul left his body for the second time. God fucking damn it, Lorenzo.

“…Yeah,” he muttered. “I like them.”

“I think that’s cool.”

Mattheo blacked out. Again.

Your fingers played with the edge of your sleeve as your eyes flicked up shyly, waiting. You looked like you were about to say something else—but Mattheo beat you to it.

Sort of.

“I, um… you’re really…”

Hot? Cute? Stunning? Celestial?

“…Fast.”

You blinked. “What?”

“In the corridor. When you ran. You’re… fast.”

You stared at him.

Mattheo braced for death.

Then—like a miracle—

You laughed.

Like, really laughed. Soft, surprised, slightly wheezy at the end, one hand covering your mouth as your shoulders shook a little.

And it was the best fucking thing he had ever heard.

“Sorry,” you said, cheeks pink with amusement. “That’s the first time someone’s complimented my… speed?”

At the Slytherin table, it was carnage.

Astoria had turned fully around, hands over her ears like she couldn’t take it anymore.

Blaise was whimpering into his hands. “I can’t watch. I’m gonna throw myself out the window. Someone stop him.”

Lorenzo and Draco were clutching each other, crying into Theodore’s shoulder, muffling their screams in his uniform. Theodore hadn’t blinked in twenty-three seconds and was beginning to vibrate.

Pansy now looked physically ill. Like Mattheo had committed a crime against romance itself.

Daphne? Daphne was now taking notes in a little notebook titled “Riddle’s Emotional Downfall: A Case Study.”

Meanwhile, Mattheo was preparing to relocate to another planet.

“I’ll just—crawl into the Forbidden Forest now,” he muttered, face in his hands and turning away.

“No, wait—Mattheo!” you laughed, reaching out without thinking and touching his sleeve.

He paused.

Turned.

And you looked up at him with the softest eyes he’d ever seen.

“Would you maybe… sit with me tomorrow? For breakfast?”

Mattheo stared.

You were offering. Inviting. Letting him in. That small smile on your face was real, not forced. You looked nervous. Hopeful.

You weren’t mocking him. You weren’t scared.

You were just… sweet.

“…Yeah,” he said, voice cracking like a dying violin string.

Your smile grew.

“Cool.”

Mattheo turned around made his way back to the Slytherin table like a man returning from war.

Silent. Dead-eyed. Emotionally obliterated.

He didn’t look at them. He couldn’t. His palms were sweaty, his heart was still thundering, and your little giggle was replaying in his ears like a haunted lullaby. You’d smiled at him. Twice. Maybe three times. And for what? His speed?

“Fast,” he muttered under his breath, horrified. “I told him he was fast.”

The moment he sat down—smack.

“OW—what the fu—Blaise?!”

Blaise had slapped the back of his head with a flat palm. “That was for all of us.”

Mattheo glared at him. “You don’t get to hit me.”

“I do when you flirt like a Quidditch concussion victim,” Blaise deadpanned, still visibly recovering from secondhand embarrassment. “Fast? FAST? What the hell does that even mean?”

“You complimented his speed,” Pansy said, still looking like she’d been personally assaulted by the interaction. “Are you dating him or racing him, track star?”

Mattheo groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Oh my god,” Astoria mumbled, now sipping water while still facing away from him like she couldn’t even look at him. “I turned around for five minutes and came back to witness a murder. Of your dignity.”

“Y/N probably thinks you hit your head on the way in,” Lorenzo said, wiping fake tears. “I can’t believe you told him you liked his mug.”

“I panicked!” Mattheo hissed, voice muffled by his hands.

Draco gave him the most evil smirk he could summon. “You looked like a toddler meeting a Disney princess. You were giddy, mate. I thought you were gonna faint.”

“You glitched in real time,” Theodore added coolly, eyes narrowed in fascination. “You froze, spoke nonsense, voice cracked three times—which I counted, by the way—and now you’re blushing so hard your freckles are showing.”

“I don’t have freckles,” Mattheo gritted.

“You do now,” Pansy said, still sneering. “That was embarrassing.”

“You should be arrested for that performance,” Astoria muttered. “Sent to Azkaban for public emotional nudity.”

Mattheo finally lifted his head, hair a mess, eyes bloodshot from emotionally combusting. “I wasn’t that bad.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Daphne, who had been calmly reviewing notes like a bored therapist, snapped her notebook shut.

“You told him he was fast,” she said, like it was a diagnosis.

“He giggled,” Blaise added. “And you stood there. Like a statue.”

“He laughed in your face,” Draco said. “And you said—‘I’ll just crawl into the Forbidden Forest now.’”

The group collectively howled again.

Theodore leaned forward, voice low. “And then he invited you to sit with him tomorrow.”

Mattheo blinked. “He… did.”

Pansy gasped. “Wait, are you blushing again?!”

“I’M NOT BLUSHING—”

“Crack number four,” Astoria said, raising her drink in salute.

Mattheo dropped his forehead onto the table.

Daphne patted his back. “That was so embarrassing,” she said softly. “Do it again tomorrow.” ────────────────────────────

Later that night . . .

The dungeons were quiet. Too quiet.

The hour was late, the castle humming softly in its sleep, and Mattheo was sprawled on his side in bed, one arm under his pillow, the other thrown carelessly over his chest. His brows were furrowed, mouth parted slightly, dark curls falling messily over his forehead.

His breathing was steady.

But his dreams? Absolutely not. ══════

It started with you laughing. Of course it did.

In the dream, you were sitting across from him in the courtyard. The sun was warm, the wind was soft, and for some reason, you were looking at him like he was the only person in the world.

You had that stupid hot chocolate again. You were giggling at something he said—he didn't even remember what he said, only that your smile was so bright it made his chest hurt.

Then, you leaned forward.

Just a little.

“Mattheo,” you whispered, voice soft like silk.

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You reached up. Tucked a curl behind his ear.

Dead. He was dead. The dream killed him.

You smiled again—sweet and sleepy—and your nose bumped his lightly, your lips barely a breath away from his—

And then you kissed him.

Soft.

Just once.

Just barely.

His brain short-circuited. He was kissing you. You were warm. Your hand was on his chest. His fingers were brushing your jaw and your lashes fluttered against his skin and—

Mattheo shot up in bed like he’d been stabbed.

The dorm was dark. His chest was heaving. His skin was hot. His mouth was dry.

“What the actual fuck,” he gasped, yanking the covers off like they’d personally betrayed him.

He blinked into the shadows, heart racing like he’d just run a marathon.

“A dream,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “It was just a fucking dream.”

He dragged a hand down his face.

And then he growled.

“WHY was it so GOOD?!”

He looked at the ceiling like he could fight the gods.

He kicked the blankets. Violently.

“I kissed him. I kissed him?! He touched my HAIR?! What the FUCK is happening to me—”

A soft creak came from across the room.

Theodore, half-asleep and deeply unamused, poked his head out from behind the curtain of his bed.

“Did you seriously wake me up because you had a wet dream about the Hufflepuff?”

Mattheo froze. “It wasn’t—shut the fuck up.”

“You were moaning.”

“I was NOT—”

“Mattheo, you said his name.”

“…No I didn’t.”

Theodore raised a brow. “You said it. Real soft. Real dreamy. Real sad.”

Mattheo grabbed a pillow and hurled it across the room. “GO BACK TO SLEEP.”

Theodore snorted. “Maybe try sleeping without tongue-kissing your feelings next time.”

Mattheo flopped backward into his bed, slamming the covers over his face.

“I hate my life.”

Theodore’s voice drifted through the darkness. “No, you just love a Hufflepuff.”

“I’m gonna hex you.”

“Good night, lover boy.”

Mattheo groaned into his pillow like it could smother the memory of your dream-lips.

But deep down?

He already knew.

He was so, so screwed.

────────────────

The morning was golden and cold.

Sunlight filtered softly through the enchanted ceiling above the Great Hall, casting streaks of pale gold over the long, polished tables and illuminating the floating candles like a slow, delicate fire. Outside, frost clung to the windows. Inside, warmth pulsed from platters of breakfast food and the hush of conversation rose in cozy hums beneath the clinks of cutlery.

It was the kind of morning where everything felt slow and sacred.

And you?

You were already seated at the far end of the Hufflepuff table—just like yesterday.

Only now, you had a second mug sitting next to yours.

Waiting.

Mattheo saw it the second he stepped into the hall—and the second he did, his lungs forgot how to work.

There you were. Sitting cross-legged on the bench, warm scarf bunched loosely around your neck, house robes half-slipping from your shoulder like you hadn’t noticed. You were buttering a croissant with the back of your spoon, not your knife, and there was jam smudged on the side of your mouth.

Your eyes were slightly puffy from sleep. Your hair a little messy. One of your socks was mismatched, just barely visible under the fold of your robe.

And somehow? You looked like sunlight made human.

You were humming softly to yourself. Completely unaware of the panic you were causing on the other side of the hall.

Mattheo just stood there for a second. Frozen.

Hands in his coat pockets. Shoulders tense. Eyes fixed on the second cup.

There were only two possible explanations. 1. It was a coincidence. Someone else's cup. Nothing to do with him. 2. You actually meant it. You’d brought it… for him.

His heart skipped. Then punched against his ribs.

His throat was dry.

“What’s he doing?” Blaise whispered across the Slytherin table, peering over the collar of his robe.

“He hasn’t moved,” Theodore muttered.

“He’s frozen again,” Pansy sighed.

“Is he breathing?” Astoria asked, deadpan.

“Should we push him forward?” Lorenzo offered. “Maybe give him a shove?”

“Do not make eye contact with him right now,” Daphne said calmly, slicing her toast. “He’s having a moment.”

Mattheo blinked slowly.

Pulled his shoulders back.

Tried to look casual and failed miserably.

He did the thing where he adjusted his coat lapels even though they were fine. Ran a hand through his curls. Tugged once on the hem of his sleeve like that would stop him from shaking.

He glanced back at his friends, who immediately pretended to look in every direction but his.

Astoria had her face in her water glass. Blaise was very suddenly fascinated by the texture of a napkin. Theodore was reading a book upside down. Draco just gave him a double thumbs-up.

Mattheo inhaled like he was about to step off a cliff.

And walked toward you.

You spotted him just before he reached the table.

You’d been trying so hard not to look at the door every five seconds, trying not to be that obvious—sitting up straighter every time it creaked open, pretending to reread the same sentence in your book over and over.

And then you saw him.

He was walking toward you—coat open, hair slightly tousled like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times. His green tie hung just a little loose around his neck, as if he’d tried to tighten it and gave up halfway. His boots thudded softly against the stone floor with each step, but his eyes? Locked straight on you. Not the Hufflepuffs around you. Not the food. Just… you.

Your breath caught. Your fingers twitched nervously near your cocoa mug.

“Mattheo!” you said before your brain could stop you, voice just a little too excited. Warm. Hopeful.

His lips parted like he hadn’t expected you to sound that happy to see him.

His steps hesitated for half a second—shoulders tensing like he was processing your smile in real time—before he adjusted course slightly and made his way directly to the spot you’d left open.

Your chest fluttered when he sat beside you. Close. Closer than you expected. His coat brushed your arm. You could smell his cologne—something sharp and smoky, but underneath that… something warm.

You pushed the second mug toward him with a bashful little tilt of your head. “I wasn’t sure if you liked coffee or cocoa, so I picked cocoa again.”

He looked down at the mug, then at you, his lashes lowering, then rising again slowly.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, voice thick and low and a little rough around the edges.

You swallowed.

The space between you felt too loud. You tapped your fingers once against your mug before quickly tucking your hands into your lap. Your leg brushed his knee. You didn’t pull away.

Mattheo sat still. Tense. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Like he was afraid one twitch would ruin everything.

“…You nervous?” he asked suddenly, voice soft and unreadable.

You blinked. “W-What? No! I mean—maybe? A little? Are you?!”

The corners of his lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “You just flinched like I proposed.”

Your eyes widened in horror. “Oh my god, I did—”

You covered your face with both hands, voice muffled. “Please pretend you didn’t see that.”

Mattheo chuckled under his breath. It wasn’t a laugh full of teeth and mockery. It was quiet, like it surprised him. Like you surprised him.

The silence returned. But this time, it wasn’t awkward. It was tender.

You peeked through your fingers, then slowly lowered your hands to your lap again, trying not to let your knee bounce. He was looking straight ahead now, blinking slowly, biting the inside of his cheek.

Your pinky brushed his.

He stilled.

So did you.

Your heart jumped to your throat. You couldn’t breathe. Neither of you moved. Not right away.

Then—slowly—you turned your head.

He looked back.

And this time? It hurt.

The way his eyes searched yours—like they weren’t allowed to. Like it was forbidden and he was doing it anyway. Like you were the softest thing in this sharp, hard world he lived in.

His gaze dipped to your lips. Just for a second. You saw it. He knew you saw it.

But he didn’t look away.

You did. Barely. Cheeks flushing as you swallowed again, throat dry.

Mattheo shifted. His hand twitched between you both. And it almost looked like he was about to reach for yours.

And then—

“MATTHEO’S TOUCHING HI—”

Blaise’s shriek sliced through the Great Hall like a Bludger through glass, so loud and so sudden that forks clattered onto plates and every single head whipped toward the Slytherin table.

Blaise had shot up from his seat, arms in the air like he’d just scored the game-winning goal at the Quidditch World Cup, face lit up in a mix of manic pride and absolute hysteria. “MATTHEO’S TOUCHING HI—”

His moment of glory was tragically short-lived. Pansy, eyes wide with the rage of a thousand banshees, grabbed him by the mouth and physically yanked him back down with a hand over his face. He squealed into her palm, kicking his feet, but she held on like her life depended on it.

“Bitch, SHUT THE FUCK UP,” Lorenzo and Draco screamed in perfect unison, both lunging across the table—one grabbing for Blaise’s flailing arm, the other going for his collar. They looked like zookeepers wrangling a particularly stubborn golden retriever.

At the head table, McGonagall dropped her spoon with a metallic clatter. Flitwick nearly fell off his stack of books. Professor Sprout just smiled and sipped her tea like it was none of her business. Snape glared over his goblet, pinching the bridge of his nose, his expression screaming why am I alive for this?

Every other table had stopped mid-bite. Ravenclaws stared, mouths open. A pair of Hufflepuff second-years were clutching each other, whispering, “is this… normal?” Gryffindor’s end erupted in giggles, Seamus and Dean smacking each other’s arms, while Hermione shushed Ron as he snorted pumpkin juice through his nose.

Astoria and Daphne, meanwhile, slid so low in their seats they were practically horizontal, hands covering their faces as if trying to phase out of existence. Astoria muttered, “I’m not here, I’m not here, I’m not here,” over and over. Daphne just groaned and mouthed, “I’m transferring.”

Theodore, ever the strategist, sat back and pulled out his copy of Advanced Potion-Making, flipping the pages with exaggerated disinterest. When someone looked his way, he didn’t even blink—just shrugged. “Exchange student,” he said. “I don’t know them.”

Pansy was still wrestling Blaise, hissing, “Do you WANT him to die of embarrassment?!” Blaise was half-under the table now, eyes huge above Pansy’s fingers, still desperately trying to point at Mattheo like a witness at a crime scene.

Lorenzo had gone feral. “SIT YOUR ASS DOWN, WE ARE NOT DOING THIS TODAY.” Draco’s voice cracked as he threatened, “I will glue your mouth shut, Blaise, I SWEAR.”

You were frozen, hand still half-raised where your pinky had brushed Mattheo’s. You blinked once, then twice, the tips of your ears burning red as every eye in the room shot to you and Mattheo.

Mattheo, for his part, was staring murder at his entire house, jaw clenched, nostrils flaring like a pissed-off dragon who’d been forced to join a knitting club.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

Silence. Just for a heartbeat.

Then someone at the Gryffindor table (probably Fred, if the snickering was any clue) yelled, “IS IT TRUE LOVE OR JUST HAND-HOLDING?”

That set off another round of cackles.

Neville dropped his toast.

Hannah Abbott gasped, “Oh my god, they’re blushing!”

Even Professor McGonagall let out the faintest sigh, muttering, “For Merlin’s sake…”

Mattheo pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to convince himself he could turn invisible with sheer willpower. You, meanwhile, couldn’t stop the shy, nervous laughter bubbling out of you, one hand pressed to your lips as if you could hold back your smile.

Your pinky was still resting against Mattheo’s.

He didn’t move it away.

After what felt like a year of chaos, the hall slowly returned to normal—but you could still feel the eyes, the whispers, the heat crawling up your neck and across your cheeks.

Mattheo glanced sideways at you, lips twitching like he wanted to laugh and scream all at once.

“They’re… intense,” you whispered.

Mattheo grumbled. “They’re vultures.”

“They’re… sweet,” you said softly. “In a terrifying way.”

Mattheo looked at you again.

You were still laughing.

Not at him.

Not meanly.

Just… amused. Warm. You looked happy.

That killed him worse than anything else.

You leaned your elbow slightly, just enough to let your pinky brush his again—and this time, you didn’t move away.

And Mattheo?

Mattheo smiled.

Really smiled.

The kind of soft, rare smile he gave no one.

You grinned, finally letting yourself relax, nerves melting just a bit with the way he looked at you—like the rest of the world could do whatever it wanted, and he’d still only see you.

Mattheo exhaled, shoulders dropping, tension finally bleeding out.

If he was being honest with himself—

He wasn’t just falling.

He was absolutely, irreversibly done for.

────────────────

You walk side by side out of the Great Hall, the air fresh and cold, sun cutting silver across the stone. Mattheo’s fingers brush yours once, twice, before you finally, silently, reach for his hand and fully link your fingers with his.

He freezes, just a half-step, like the touch is a spell. You glance up. Mattheo meets your gaze, the confusion and hope swirling in his eyes so obvious it almost makes you laugh.

You squeeze his hand—just a little. His palm is warm, a bit clammy, and you can feel his thumb twitch against your knuckle.

You keep walking, steps falling in sync down the long hallway. A flock of younger Hufflepuffs stares in open shock from a nearby archway; two older Slytherin girls do double-takes and then whisper, and somewhere overhead, a ghost makes an exaggerated “aww” sound as you pass.

Mattheo keeps looking forward, lips pressed together, but you see the tips of his ears flush pink. He glances down at your joined hands. Then at your face. Then back at your hands.

You smile, swinging his hand a little—just a tiny, dorky sway, like you’re trying to see if he’ll let you.

He lets you. In fact, he blushes harder.

He clears his throat, voice a bit rough. “You… always this bold after breakfast?”

You raise your brows. “You want me to stop?”

“No.” His answer is immediate, a little too fast. He tries to play it cool—shrugs with the shoulder you’re not clinging to—but his cheeks are giving him away. “Just not used to… this.”

“Hand-holding?”

“Yeah. Or…” He fumbles for words. “Being… seen. Like this.”

You squeeze his hand tighter. “Sorry. I forget sometimes I’m supposed to care what people think.”

Mattheo lets out a breath. “It’s not you. I just—everyone’s always… looking.”

You shrug. “Let them look. I want them to.”

He stops in the middle of the corridor, yanking you gently to a halt. “Seriously?”

You nod, honest. “Seriously. If I could, I’d drag you through every corridor at Hogwarts until they all memorized the way you look at me.”

He stares at you. Like he’s never heard someone say something like that before. Like the words themselves are a foreign language.

He glances away, a shy smile curling up at the edges of his mouth. “You’re kind of insane.”

You nudge him. “You like it.”

He snorts—an actual snort. “Yeah. Maybe I do.”

You grin, warmth blooming up your chest. The two of you start walking again, your stride a little more bouncy now. Every now and then, you give his hand another swing, and every time, he lets you.

You catch glimpses of your reflection in the tall castle windows—two boys, side by side, hands linked, a flash of gold and green in your ties, a mismatched mess that somehow fits perfectly.

“I still can’t believe you asked me to sit with you,” Mattheo mutters.

You shoot him a sidelong look. “You think I’m brave enough to not ask?”

Mattheo rolls his eyes, but his lips are twitching. “You were shaking so bad you spilled cocoa on yourself.”

“And you tried to act cool and said you liked my mug. Who’s the dork now?”

“Don’t remind me.” He groans, but he’s smiling—really smiling, for the first time today.

The two of you wind out through the open doors onto the lawn, your hands swinging back and forth between you. The air is crisp, the grass wet with dew. You don’t care.

You make your way down to the lake, passing a group of giggling second years who all fall silent as you walk by, jaws dropping. You and Mattheo pretend not to notice, but when you’re past, you both burst out laughing.

Mattheo shakes his head. “You know you’re starting rumors right now, right?”

“Good,” you say. “Maybe I’ll get a reputation. Maybe people will stop thinking I’m just a ‘quiet Hufflepuff’ and realize I’m actually the guy who made Mattheo Riddle blush in broad daylight.”

Mattheo nudges your side. “They’ll probably just think you’ve been cursed.”

“By what, bad taste?”

He grins, shaking his head. “By me. Being around me is… dangerous, you know.”

You stop. Turn toward him, still holding his hand. His eyes flick up, startled by your sudden seriousness.

“Mattheo,” you say, voice soft but unwavering. “I know who you are. I know what people say about you. But… I also know who you are when it’s just us.”

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Who’s that?”

You lift your other hand, brushing his hair gently off his forehead. “The boy who makes me laugh. Who gets nervous for no reason. Who blushes and tries to hide it. Who held my hand so tight just now I thought you’d break it.”

He stares at you, silent, something huge and unnamed growing in his eyes.

The silence stretches.

You step closer, until your noses nearly touch.

“You don’t have to be dangerous with me,” you whisper. “I like you exactly the way you are.”

Mattheo can’t look away.

He lets out a shaky breath, fingers tightening around yours. His walls—those walls everyone else complains about—drop just a little.

He looks down. “I’ve never…”

You wait.

He glances up. “No one’s ever held my hand like this before.”

You smile, pressing your forehead lightly to his. “I’ll do it every day, if you want.”

Mattheo squeezes your hand again. “You’d get tired of it.”

You shake your head. “Not a chance.”

He laughs, the sound bubbling out of him, light and sweet and completely not how anyone expects Mattheo Riddle to sound.

You start walking again, your steps slow, hands still linked. The rest of the world melts away. For a while, neither of you says anything. There’s just the grass beneath your shoes, the occasional caw of a distant crow, and the rhythm of your breathing.

At some point, you swing your joined hands higher—ridiculous, childish, but perfect. Mattheo raises a brow. “Are you five?”

You swing his hand again. “No. But I’m happy. Are you?”

He looks at you. Really looks. And the way his eyes soften, just for you, says more than anything he could say out loud.

“I think I am,” he admits.

You give him your brightest, softest smile—the one that makes your eyes crinkle and your freckles glow.

For a few minutes, you both just exist together. You pass the old willow by the lake, then make your way up a little hill where you can see most of the grounds. The wind is chilly but gentle. You don’t let go.

He glances at your entwined fingers. “Everyone’s staring.”

“Let them.”

“You’re not embarrassed?”

You shake your head. “No. Are you?”

Mattheo hesitates, then shakes his head, too. “Not anymore.”

He squeezes your hand again. Just because he can.

You turn to face him fully. “What?”

He shrugs. “Just making sure you’re real.”

You laugh and let go for a second—only to turn and really take his hand, palms pressed flat, fingers locked. You give his hand a full swing and twirl, dragging him with you. He stumbles, off-balance, and you both burst out laughing again.

You end up chest to chest, both out of breath, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

He leans in, voice barely a whisper. “You’re trouble.”

You grin. “You like it.”

“Maybe I do.”

The sun is rising higher, the castle buzzing to life behind you, and every so often you see heads peeking out the windows, a few Gryffindors gawking, even a couple professors pretending not to stare.

You and Mattheo don’t care.

You just keep walking, hand in hand, sometimes swinging, sometimes just holding, sometimes bumping shoulders on purpose.

You wander near the edge of the lake, stopping by a boulder half-covered in moss. Mattheo sits, pulling you down next to him, still not letting go.

You both watch the water, sunlight glinting silver and gold on the surface.

He says quietly, “This is the happiest I’ve felt in… a long time.”

You lean your head against his shoulder. “Me too.”

A moment passes. The breeze ruffles your hair.

Mattheo turns so you’re looking at each other, so close you can count the gold flecks in his eyes.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

He hesitates. Swallows. Licks his lips.

“Do you… do you like me?”

You freeze.

Everything stops.

You blink, heart pounding so loud you think he must hear it.

He looks terrified. Completely exposed.

You stand up, tugging him with you.

You turn so you’re facing him, both hands gripping his now.

He waits.

You just look at him for a moment, letting all the feelings that have been bottling up finally show on your face. Every laugh, every nervous flutter, every quiet moment together, every time you caught yourself watching him across a crowded room—all of it, clear in your eyes.

You swallow. Smile.

And with the softest, most sincere voice you’ve ever used, you say:

“I’ve liked you since third year.”

Mattheo’s mouth parts. He doesn’t speak. He just stares at you, thunderstruck, the world pausing around him.

And in that breathless, endless moment, with the sun shining and your fingers twined.

Everything changes.