#fancast

Interested, knowing your dormmates would walk in without bothering you knock, you slip from your bed and pad across the stone floor to the thick wooden door. It's a Hogsmeade weekend, despite it being late, many people are still at the village, waiting until they absolutely have to come back at 9.

You adjust your night gown to adopt some semblance of being put together before pulling open the door.

You freeze

"What are you doing here?" You breathe out, staring at the boy in front of you.

His curly hair is more wild than usual, falling across his forehead, windswept. His lips are parted as if he's about to speak, or rather, he might be catching his breath after hurrying here. But there's that awful look in his eyes. They're bloodshot - sleepy.

"Angel," he whispers, seeming to be drawn out of his haze as his focus lands on you. He glances down the corridor, pushing his hair off his forehead.

"What are you doing here, Mattheo?" You repeat, feeling the familiar sadness rise in your chest.

"Needed to see you," is his only response. "Please, Angel, let me in."

You make no move for a long moment, before your resolve breaks and you find yourself stepping out of the doorway.

Without wasting a moment, he steps into your dormitory.

"Can I touch you, pretty?" He asks, voice quiet. He makes no move to close the foot of distance between you. He never does - not until you allow him.

Your heart clenches violently. You give him the slightest of nods.

And then his arms are wrapping around your waist. He clutches at your nightgown, face pushing to nuzzle against your neck.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he murmurs, breath hot on your skin. His nose nudges your throat, but he doesn't kiss you yet. "Can never stop thinking about you. All the time, Angel. Pretty Angel."

He's babbling. And you're painfully, tragically used to it. How he stumbles towards you, kissing your skin, whispering sweet nothings.

How he acts as if it didn't happen the very next day.

And you hate yourself for giving in every time, for accepting the praise and affection, for that cracking feeling in your chest each time he ignores your looks once he's sober.

"You look terrible," you whisper, keeping your eyes trained on a stone in the floor, refusing to meet his eyes when he pulls back.

"You told me I looked handsome." He presses a ghost of a kiss to your temple. "When you found me at the astronomy tower." His hand is firm against your lower back, the other brushing away a stray hair on your forehead.

"And you talked to me more often then."

He frowns, glazed eyes sliding from your mouth to meet your own gaze "I talk to you," he protests, his voice still low. "I love talking to you, Angel." He lowers his head again, pressing a string of hot kisses over your throat, his curls tickling your skin.

"You only talk to me when you're high." You say it simply, though a hint of sadness creeps into your voice. "You ignore me, otherwise."

More kisses are being trailer from your neck, to your jaw, and finally to your mouth where he hesitates. "Angel, you don't get it."

"I don't get it?" You challenge, feeling anger seep around the sadness. "What? Are you scared your mates will judge you? Do you have a reputation to withhold? One I'd ruin?"

"What? No-" He cuts off, looking away and ruffling his hair again. "I don't give a fuck about what my mates think. I want to talk to you more - wanna be good for you - but I can't."

You put your hands on his chest, making to push him away, but you don't. "That's a shite answer and you know it."

"I don't have another answer!" But instead of slipping away from you, his arm tightens around your waist, and his already glazed eyes look glossier. "Fuck - Angel, 'm sorry. I know you're mad. But I want you so bad, pretty. I jus' don't know how. I can't do it, can't be good enough for you."

Your fingers curl into the material of his jumper, your nose filling with the scent of weed and his cologne, remembering how many nights you've spent with him wrapped around you, his fingers tracing your spine through your nightgown.

"Please," he murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. And he kisses the corner of your mouth. "Please understand. I don't wanna lose this with you. It's all I can do to stop from going mental, getting to have you."

But that's all he says.

There's no promises to try, to approach you when he's in his right mind. He can't commit to wanting you outside of moments like these.

And you hate that a part of you feels pity. Because, when he's high and vulnerable, he's told you how hard it is for him to trust people, to let them in.

But he won't try. He says he wants you - but he won't change this one habit for you.

"You need to go back," you finally whisper, tearing yourself away from him, body burning, yet feeling cold from a lack of him.

"Angel..."

You turn around, refusing to let him see the emotion on your face. "Riddle. Get out."

"Fuck," he says, barely audible behind you. You hear him draw a ragged breath, the sound catching on the end. But he leaves. The door shuts behind him and you're left in the silence of your dormitory, surrounded by his scent.