She's not me
Mattheo Riddle
I slide onto the bench beside Mattheo, my robes brushing his as the Slytherin table hums with evening chatter. The candlelight floating above us flickers against the green-and-silver banners, painting his cheekbones in soft gold. Under the table, my fingers brush his and a spark runs up my arm. He gives me a small, knowing smirk that curls something warm low in my stomach.
“You’re late,” Mattheo says, stabbing a roasted potato with his fork like it personally offended him.
“I had to dodge a Hufflepuff who tried to hex me for taking the last cauldron in Potions,” I say, grabbing a goblet of pumpkin juice. The metal is cool against my fingers, grounding me.
“You probably deserved it,” Theo says, grinning as he tears a piece of bread and pops it into his mouth.
“Be nice,” Mattheo says, leaning toward me, his shoulder pressing firmly against mine. “My girl’s terrifying when she wants to be.”
I raise an eyebrow at him, fighting a smile. “When I want to be?”
He chuckles, the sound low and familiar, and presses a soft kiss to my temple. His lips are warm and linger for a second longer than they need to, and my chest tightens in that way it always does when he forgets to hide how much he cares. “Alright. Always.”
“Disgusting,” Pansy says loudly, dramatically flipping her hair as she spears a bit of salad with unnecessary aggression. “Can you two not start being revolting this early into dinner?”
“You act like you and Draco are subtle,” Enzo says, pouring himself more juice. The jug glugs loudly, and the smell of pumpkin and spices rises between us. “I saw you practically sitting in his lap in the common room last night.”
“That’s because he’s warm,” Pansy says, shrugging, entirely unbothered as she takes a dainty bite. “And also mine.”
“She’s not wrong,” Draco says, smirking as he reaches for a chicken leg. The grease glistens on his fingers, but he somehow still looks like he walked out of a catalogue. “Comfort is everything.”
Mattheo leans in again, his shoulder pressing more firmly into mine, his breath brushing my ear as he drops his voice so only I hear. “I’m better than warm. I’m hot.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I roll my eyes to cover it. “Modest,” I say, laughing softly as I nudge his leg under the table with my knee.
He smirks and takes a sip from his goblet, throat working as he swallows. His hand finds my thigh under the table, fingers resting there casually like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It kind of is. My skin tingles where he touches me, the warmth seeping through the fabric of my skirt.
“So, are we going to Hogsmeade this weekend or not?” Blaise says, eyeing us all from across the table, his tone the practiced boredom of someone who pays more attention than he lets on.
“Depends,” Theo says around a bite of roasted carrot. “Is Pansy going to spend the whole time dragging Draco into Madam Puddifoot’s again?”
“It’s charming!” Pansy says, pouting as she sets her fork down with a soft clink.
“It’s a pink nightmare,” Enzo says flatly.
“Better than following Mattheo and Y/N around while they make out in every alley,” Blaise says, rolling his eyes, though his lips twitch like he’s amused despite himself.
“That was one time,” I say, cheeks flushing hot. I take a sip of pumpkin juice to hide it, but the sweetness does nothing to cool the embarrassment prickling under my skin.
“Three times,” Theo corrects, grinning. “We counted.”
Mattheo shrugs, utterly shameless. “What can I say? She’s hard to keep my hands off of.”
I choke on my drink, coughing as the juice goes down the wrong way, and Blaise snorts. Mattheo grins proudly like this is exactly the reaction he was aiming for. It probably is.
“Don’t act shy now,” he says, lowering his voice, eyes fixed on me in that intense way that makes the noise of the Great Hall fade for a second. “You started it behind Honeydukes.”
The memory flashes in my mind: the smell of sugar and chocolate, his hands on my waist, my back pressed against cold stone, my heart beating so hard I felt it everywhere. I swallow. “That was because you wouldn’t stop looking at me like that,” I say, gesturing at his face.
“Like what?” he asks, smirking, but there’s something softer in his eyes, a question he never quite voices.
“Like you’re planning something illegal.”
He leans in, his lips almost brushing my ear, his voice a quiet murmur that sends a shiver down my spine. “Maybe I am.”
I feel every point of contact between us: his knee against mine, his hand on my thigh, his shoulder pressed into my side. I could live in this moment, in this warmth, forever.
“Get a room,” Draco says, but he’s grinning as he tears off a piece of bread and tosses it across the table at Mattheo.
Mattheo catches it easily with one hand and pops it into his mouth like a show-off.
“Jealous?” Mattheo says, mouth still half full.
“Hardly,” Draco says, lacing his fingers with Pansy’s under the table. Their joined hands bump against a bowl, and Pansy doesn’t even pretend to pull away. “I don’t need to make a spectacle to prove something.”
“You sure about that?” I ask, smirking at him. “Because you had Pansy pinned to a wall last week in the hallway near the library.”
Theo snorts. Enzo raises his eyebrows. Even Blaise looks up properly this time.
“That was educational,” Pansy says sweetly, tilting her head and batting her lashes. “We were discussing anatomy.”
Enzo coughs on his drink, sputtering, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Anyway,” Blaise says, wiping his own mouth with a napkin like nothing’s happened. “If we do go to Hogsmeade, I vote we hit the Three Broomsticks first.”
The mention of Hogsmeade sends a little thrill through me. The cobblestone streets, frosted shop windows, the way Mattheo always walks half a step closer like he dares anyone to try anything. The way I feel like the world shrinks down to just us.
“I’m in,” Theo says. “They’ve got that new firewhisky blend.”
“Y/N can’t handle firewhisky,” Mattheo says, bumping his knee against mine under the table, his fingers flexing slightly on my thigh.
“Excuse you,” I say, offended, turning to glare at him. “I held my own last time.”
“You ended up singing Celestina Warbeck outside Zonko’s,” Theo says, grinning wide.
“And then cried about a pigeon,” Enzo adds helpfully.
My face burns all over again at the memory. The hazy warmth of the firewhisky, the distant music from the pub, and that ridiculous pigeon perched on a lamppost, staring down at me like it knew all my secrets. “It looked judgmental,” I mutter.
Mattheo pulls me closer suddenly, arm wrapping around my shoulders and tugging me into his side like I belong there. I do. I always have. I breathe him in, the mix of smoke, soap, and something uniquely his. It settles something restless inside me.
“I’ll carry you home again if I have to,” he says, grinning down at me. His eyes soften, and for a heartbeat the teasing drops away. “You’re worth it.”
The words land low and warm in my chest, spreading slowly. He says it like it’s obvious, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. My throat tightens a little.
I rest my head against his shoulder, feeling the solid warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his breathing. “That’s the nicest way anyone’s ever called me a lightweight.”
“You’re my lightweight,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. His lips linger there, and the simple, quiet affection of it makes my heart ache in the best way.
For a second, with the clatter of cutlery and the murmur of a hundred conversations around us, it feels like there’s a bubble around just us. Like nothing outside this bench, this table, exists.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Pansy says, laughing. “I’m gonna start throwing things.”
“You’re just mad we’re better than you,” I tease, lifting my head but not moving away from Mattheo’s side.
“Please,” she scoffs. “Draco and I are the standard.”
“Standardly boring,” Mattheo says, reaching for another potato with his free hand.
Draco smirks, eyes glinting. “You’re just mad Pansy doesn’t let you be the little spoon.”
Mattheo raises an eyebrow, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he considers whether to take the bait. Of course he does. “Who says she doesn’t?”
Everyone goes quiet for a second, blinking as they process that.
“I have regrets,” Theo says at last. “So many regrets.”
“Pass the butter,” Enzo says, choosing survival and ignoring everyone.
“Anyway,” Blaise says, sighing dramatically as if we’re all exhausting. “Group trip to Hogsmeade. We’ll all go, drink, and watch Y/N cry over judgmental birds again.”
“Perfect,” I say, deadpan, though I can’t quite bite back a smile. “Just what I want burned into my legacy.”
“You’ll be fine,” Mattheo says, smirking as he looks down at me like I’m the only person in the room. It does things to my heart I don’t have names for. “As long as I’m there to distract you.”
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his breath warm against my skin. Goosebumps rise along the back of my neck.
“Later, let’s sneak out. After curfew.”
My pulse jumps. I turn my head slightly so I can see his eyes. There’s mischief there, of course, but under it something steadier, something that says he just wants more time with me. Just us. “What for?”
He grins, that slow, familiar one that always makes my stomach flip. “Do I need a reason?”
I shake my head, already smiling like an idiot, unable to help it. With him, I never can.
Pansy sighs again, long-suffering. “Merlin, just snog already.”
---
Mattheo closes the door behind Theo with a grin, the faint click of the latch almost swallowed by the crackle of the fire in the Slytherin common room below. “That’s the third night in a row he’s snuck off to see her,” Mattheo says, turning the lock with an easy flick of his fingers.
“At least he warned us this time,” I say, curling deeper into the pile of blankets on his bed. His mattress dips under my weight, familiar and soft, smelling faintly of laundry potion and that warm, smoky spice that clings to his jumpers. The stone walls of the dormitory hold in the chill, but his bed is always warm.
“True. Last time I was about five seconds from kissing you before he popped out of nowhere like a cursed jack in the box.”
I laugh, the sound bouncing softly off the canopy above us. I watch him pull off his jumper, the green and silver crest flashing for a second before the wool bunches in his hands. He tosses it onto the desk chair where parchment, ink, and a half finished essay for Snape are scattered. He walks back to the bed in just his black undershirt and sweats, bare forearms inked with faint shadows from old mischief.
My chest gives a little flutter that still surprises me, even now. It’s ridiculous, how easily he can make my heart stutter just by existing in my line of sight.
“You planning to stay fully clothed tonight or…?” I ask, smirking, letting the teasing edge hide how my pulse has started to thrum in my throat.
Mattheo raises an eyebrow as he comes closer, the corner of his mouth curving. “You trying to get me naked already, sweetheart?”
“Just pointing out facts,” I say, stretching a little so the blankets slip around my hips. “You’re very distracting.”
He climbs into bed beside me, the mattress dipping again as his weight settles. The old springs creak quietly in protest. He pulls the blankets over us, tucking them around my shoulders, then wraps his arms around my waist and tugs me into his chest like it’s muscle memory, like this is exactly where he expects me to be. His body is solid and warm against mine, the faint scent of smoke and peppermint drifting off his skin.
“You’re one to talk,” Mattheo says, his breath warm against my neck as he presses his lips just behind my ear. A shiver races down my spine. “You’ve been in my head all day.”
Heat curls low in my stomach at the simple admission. It’s stupid how much it matters, how much I want to stay lodged in that beautiful, chaotic mind of his.
“That sounds like a you problem.” I try to sound casual, but my voice comes out softer than I intend.
“Mm. I like my problems soft and mouthy, thanks.”
I laugh again, turning so I’m facing him, our noses almost brushing. The space between us feels charged, humming with something that settles in my ribs and refuses to move.
His hand finds my waist under the blanket, warm and slow, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against the thin fabric of my shirt. Each small movement sends little sparks across my skin.
“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” he murmurs, his eyes searching mine like he already knows my answer.
“What does?”
“Having the room quiet for once. No Theo snoring, no Blaise humming while he journals or whatever the hell he does with that quill of his.”
I picture it for a second. Theo sprawled across his bed, mouth open, snoring loud enough to wake the Bloody Baron. Blaise leaning back on his pillows, quill scratching steadily as he fills yet another elegant, maddeningly neat page with thoughts he’ll smirk about but never share.
“It’s nice,” I whisper, my eyes softening as I look at Mattheo. His face is relaxed, the lines of mischief and trouble smoothed out by the dim candlelight flickering from the bedside table. “Just us.”
“Exactly how I like it,” Mattheo says, and there’s no teasing in his tone now. He leans in to kiss me, slow and lingering, like he’s in no rush to be anywhere else. His lips are soft and sure, tasting faintly of sugar quills he stole from dinner. My heart climbs into my throat.
When he pulls back, he stays close, our foreheads almost touching. “You’re warm.”
“I’m always warm,” I say, smirking to cover how breathless I feel. “You just notice because your feet are always cold.”
He groans, dropping his head briefly to my shoulder like I’ve wounded him. “Don’t expose me like this.”
“You put them on me like I’m your personal heater,” I say, laughing as he wraps his leg around mine under the blankets, clearly doing it again. His toes brush my calf and I flinch at the icy contact.
“You love it,” Mattheo says smugly, burying his face in my neck. His curls tickle my skin. His voice vibrates against my throat. “You’d miss me if I stopped.”
I don’t answer right away. The truth sits heavy and bright in my chest, bigger than any joke. I just run my fingers through his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp the way I know he loves. I feel him melt into it, his whole body relaxing, tension draining from his shoulders like I’ve cast some quiet, private charm only he can feel.
Yeah, I think. I’d miss you in ways I don’t even know how to say out loud.
“Yeah,” I finally whisper, the word slipping out before I can overthink it. “I would.”
He lifts his head to look at me. The dorm is dim, lit mostly by the dying fire beyond the green tinged windows and the single candle on his nightstand, but I can still see the way his expression softens. The smirk fades, replaced by something gentler, more vulnerable.
“Say it again.”
“That I’d miss you?”
“No.” He grins, but his eyes are shining, serious behind the playful tone. “The ‘yeah.’ You sound cute when you say it like that.”
I roll my eyes, even as my cheeks heat. “You’re such a menace.”
“Your menace,” he says, the words quiet but certain as he pulls me impossibly closer. My face tucks under his chin now, our bodies fitting together like we’ve done this a hundred times and plan to do it a hundred more. His heartbeat thuds steady against my ear. “Lucky you.”
“Very lucky,” I whisper into his chest, and I mean it more than I’ve meant anything all day. My fingers curl lightly in the fabric of his shirt, like I can anchor him here by sheer will.
We lay there for a while, tangled up, listening to the muffled sounds of the Black Lake pressing against the enchanted windows. The occasional ripple of water casts shifting shadows on the ceiling above us, green and grey and soft. His fingers trace the length of my spine under my shirt, slow and unhurried, like he’s memorizing every line of me. Each pass sends another warm shiver through me.
I shift slightly and press a kiss just below his jaw, right where his pulse is. It jumps under my lips. I feel him swallow.
He hums, low in his chest. “Careful, princess. You keep doing that and I’ll never let you leave.”
The idea sends a strange ache through me, half thrill and half longing. I think of classes tomorrow, of Snape’s bored drawl, of the endless corridors and shifting staircases. None of it feels as real or as important as this narrow strip of mattress and the boy wrapped around me like I’m something he refuses to lose.
“Who says I want to?” The words leave me before I can swallow them back, honest and bare in the quiet room.
He pulls back just enough to look at me again, his brows drawing together like he’s trying to read every thought in my head. His hand comes up to brush my cheek, fingers calloused and careful, a tenderness that doesn’t match his usual chaos. His thumb skims my skin, slow and reverent, like I’m something precious.
“You’re dangerous when you talk like that,” Mattheo says quietly. There’s no joke in his voice now. “Makes me want to keep you here forever.”
My chest squeezes, sharp and sweet. For a heartbeat I can see it. We’re older, the war is a story we tell in past tense, the world steadier than it has any right to be. His room is different, but the feeling is the same. His arms around me, that same look in his eyes like I’m his safest place.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper. The words feel like a promise and a spell all at once. “You’ve got me.”
Something in his gaze loosens, like a knot coming undone. He kisses me again, slower this time, softer, like he’s sealing what I just said somewhere deep inside him. His hand slides into my hair, holding me close but not too tight, as if he’s terrified I might vanish and still trusts that I won’t.
When we break apart, I bury myself in his chest again, breathing him in like I want to remember this exact moment forever. He pulls the blanket tighter around us, tucking it under my chin.
“Night, baby,” he says, his voice thick with sleep. The rough edges of it scrape pleasantly along my nerves.
“Night, Théo’s not here so we can cuddle properly,” I whisper back, grinning against his shirt.
He laughs into my hair, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my cheek. Outside, the water shifts against the glass with a soft, steady rhythm that almost sounds like breathing. His hand settles at the small of my back, holding me close but gentle.
Just before I drift off, I feel him press one last kiss to my forehead, lingering there for a second longer than he needs to, like he’s memorizing the shape of me under his lips.
For the first time in a long time, Hogwarts feels less like a battlefield waiting to happen and more like this. A quiet room, shared warmth, his heartbeat under my ear, and the sure, steady certainty that I’m his, and he’s mine.
---
I stab a piece of scrambled egg and glance around the table, my legs tucked up beside Mattheo’s under the bench. The edge of the wooden seat bites into my thigh, but his knee is warm against mine, grounding me in the chaos of the Great Hall. Candles float overhead, dripping wax that never lands, casting soft gold over silver dishes and chattering students.
He’s halfway through a cinnamon roll, butter on his thumb, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, which he probably did. There’s a faint red line on his cheek from his pillow, and I want to smooth it away with my thumb.
“Merlin, this is actual poison,” Theo says, dramatically spitting a bite of toast into a napkin.
“Maybe don’t burn it then?” Enzo says, stealing his pumpkin juice without even looking guilty.
“You made me laugh while I was toasting it,” Theo says, shoving Enzo in the shoulder, crumbs scattering across the table.
“Toast is literally stationary,” Blaise says, sipping black coffee like it fuels his entire personality. The steam curls around his face, bitter and sharp.
Mattheo grins beside me, draping an arm across the back of my seat. His fingers brush the back of my neck, and a little shiver runs down my spine. I lean into him slightly as I butter a croissant, stealing his warmth, breathing in the familiar smell of smoke and cinnamon and his cologne that clings to his shirt.
“Why are you all so loud this early?” Pansy says, rubbing her temple like the noise is a personal attack.
“Because some of us didn’t spend all night snogging Draco in a broom cupboard,” I say, not looking up from my plate as I chase a crumb with the tip of my knife.
“Jealous?” she says, smirking, eyeliner sharp enough to cut.
“Of the cupboard,” I deadpan.
Draco smirks over his goblet, pale fingers lazy around the stem. “You’d be lucky to get a turn.”
“Disgusting,” Theo says, buttering a second piece of toast with exaggerated care, like he can erase the image by focusing really hard on carbs.
The doors at the front of the hall creak open, the sound echoing off stone walls, and conversation drops a notch. Dumbledore rises from the staff table, his robes shifting in a slow, colorful wave, arms spread wide.
“Students,” Dumbledore says, his voice carrying easily, warm and amused, “please welcome a new transfer from Beauxbatons Academy, joining us for the remainder of the term.”
Heads turn, mine included. The air seems to sharpen for a moment, every sound too clear: the clink of cutlery, the faint hoot of an owl far above, the rustle of robes.
The girl stepping into the hall is glowing. Long platinum blonde hair, curled to glossy perfection, bounces against her back. Bright blue eyes, wide and fluttery with obviously fake lashes that catch the candlelight. Her lips are coated in thick, glassy pink lip gloss, and she walks like she knows everyone’s watching, hips swaying slightly with each step like she’s on a runway instead of ancient stone.
She probably practiced it.
“She’s going to snap an ankle in those heels,” Pansy mutters under her breath.
“She’s wearing heels?” Enzo says, leaning around Theo, nearly knocking over the jam.
“Platform ones,” I mutter, adjusting my glasses and instinctively brushing my hand through my brown hair. My fingers snag on a knot I missed this morning. My reflection in the polished silver teapot doesn’t lie: hazel eyes, minimal makeup, and the beginnings of a crumb on my cheek. I swipe it away quickly.
Great.
“She’s… alright,” Blaise says, eyeing her like he’s already made a mental file, calmly analytical, like she’s a puzzle instead of a person.
“She’s fit,” Theo says, predictably.
“Please,” Pansy scoffs. “She looks like she got dressed in the dark at a Muggle mall.”
“Is that jealousy I hear?” Draco says, amused, tilting his head.
“She’d melt in the rain,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else, staring at the way her hair shines unnaturally bright. She probably smells like expensive flowers and perfection.
Mattheo hasn’t said anything.
The silence from him is louder than everyone else’s noise. I glance up at him, ready to make some snarky comment, just in time to see him watching her.
Not staring. Not ogling. But his eyes are definitely following her movement as she crosses in front of the Slytherin table, like something about her has hooked his attention for a second.
Something tightens in my chest, hot and sudden. The fork feels heavier in my hand.
And she’s definitely noticed. She tosses her hair, the curls shifting like they’re in a shampoo advert, and offers a glossy, slow smile in our direction before slipping into a seat at the Ravenclaw table. A few boys at that table straighten up immediately, practically preening under her glance.
That’s when I reach up and grab Mattheo’s shoulder, tugging him slightly back toward me. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, warm from his skin underneath.
He blinks like I snapped him out of a daze, long lashes flickering as his eyes shift to me.
“What?” Mattheo says, his brow furrowing just a little.
“You were looking,” I say, poking my fork into my eggs a little too hard. The yolk squishes in a messy heap, matching the stupid feeling in my chest.
He arches a brow. “So?”
“So?” I echo. “Don’t make me dump this coffee in your lap.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but I don’t pull it back.
Mattheo grins, slow and familiar, the one that always makes my stomach flip. “Jealous, are we?”
“No,” I lie, way too quickly. The word tastes bitter. Of course I’m jealous. The idea of someone else catching his attention, even for a second, makes my skin feel too tight.
He leans in close, his breath warm against my ear, his shoulder pressing into mine. “You pull me like that again, love, and I’ll start thinking you like having your hands on me.”
I nudge his side, scowling, but it’s weak. My fingers are still curled into his shirt, refusing to let go. He knows. Of course he knows.
“I just don’t like when people stare at you,” I mutter, eyes fixed on my plate. Heat creeps up my neck. “Like you’re… available.”
“I’m not,” Mattheo says, shrugging like it’s the simplest thing in the world. His hand slides from the back of my chair to my waist, fingertips pressing lightly through my robes. “You’ve got me.”
The words settle over me like a spell, simple and sure. I glance up at him, and he’s already watching me now, fully. Warm eyes, lazy smirk, that soft look he saves for when it’s just us, like there’s no one else in the room.
Not even the blonde Barbie sitting two tables away.
“Good,” I say softly. It comes out almost like a promise, or maybe a warning. My chest loosens a little.
Mattheo picks up a strawberry from his plate and holds it out to me between his fingers, red and glistening. There’s a tiny smear of juice on his thumb.
I roll my eyes but take a bite anyway, teeth sinking into the sweetness, and he watches me like I just made his morning, like there’s nothing more interesting than the way I chew a piece of fruit.
Across the table, Theo groans loudly.
“If I see one more strawberry being fed romantically, I’m leaving.”
“Then leave,” Mattheo says, not looking away from me for a second. His thumb brushes my bottom lip, wiping away a dot of juice. “We’re busy.”
---
I drop my bag onto the desk beside Theo, sliding into my usual seat as the rest of the class starts to file in. The wooden stool wobbles a little beneath me, familiar and uneven, and the cool dungeon air smells like damp stone and burnt lacewing flies.
“You bring your notes?” Theo asks, already flipping through his own, his fingers stained faintly with ink and something that looks suspiciously like crushed scarab beetle.
I nod, pulling parchment from my bag and setting my wand beside my cauldron. The handle is warm from my hand, and for a second I let my thumb rest on the notch near the tip Mattheo carved into it for me last year, when he said, Now it actually fits you.
Across the room, Mattheo enters with his usual swagger, hair messy, tie loose, shirt untucked just enough to annoy McGonagall if she saw him. He moves like he owns the corridor, like the dungeon is just another shadow he slipped out of. He spots me, and that slow, lazy grin tugs at his mouth. He gives a quick wink, the kind that hits low in my stomach, and takes his seat near the center, one row up.
“He’s actually early for once,” Theo says, amused. “Miracle.”
My lips twitch, because it is one. Mattheo’s never on time for anything except meeting me.
Before I can respond, the door creaks open again, a long, dragging sound that pulls everyone’s eyes toward it, and in she walks.
Her.
The new girl. Same glossy blonde waves I’d seen in the Great Hall at breakfast, catching the torchlight like she’d charmed every strand to shine. Same fluttery fake lashes, thick and dark, casting shadows on her cheeks, lips shimmering like she dipped them in icing and liked the taste of it too much to wipe it off.
She pauses dramatically just inside the doorway, her hand still curled around the knob, like she’s posing for a moving portrait. Her gaze sweeps the classroom, slow and deliberate, like she’s searching for where the sun’s supposed to shine from and hasn’t decided yet. A few boys near the back straighten up in their seats.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Theo mutters under his breath, not bothering to hide the eye roll.
Slughorn’s voice rings out from the front. “Ah, Miss Astoria! Lovely, lovely. Welcome again. Let’s find you a seat, shall we?” His belly jiggles a bit as he claps his hands once, the smell of crystallized pineapple already hanging around him.
She blinks slowly, like a content cat, lashes sweeping down and up in one smooth practiced motion. Slughorn’s gaze skims the room, then lands on the empty stool right next to Mattheo.
“Perfect,” Slughorn says, beaming. “Mr. Riddle, be a gentleman, won’t you?”
Mattheo leans back slightly, one arm draped lazily over his chair, fingers curling around the edge of the desk. “Sure,” he says, casual, but I know that tone. It’s the one he uses when he’s bored and about to entertain himself.
My spine goes rigid.
She practically floats across the room, robes swishing around her ankles, hips swaying like she’s walking down the center of the Yule Ball staircase instead of into sixth-year Potions. Conversations dip and then pick back up around her, voices thinning with curiosity.
She sits down beside him, crossing her legs neatly, placing her sparkly quill on the desk like she’s setting a trap and already knows it’ll spring. The feather’s tipped with tiny silver stars that glint in the low lantern light.
Something tightens in my jaw. I huff, a little louder than I mean to, the sound crackling sharp in the murmur of the classroom, and immediately slam my bottle of salamander blood down harder than necessary. It hits the stone with a dull thunk that makes the crimson liquid slosh against the glass.
A few drops leap up toward the cork. My fingers sting from the impact.
Theo turns his head toward me slowly, like he’s bracing for an explosion. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything,” I mutter, already pulling out the ingredients list. The parchment crinkles under my hands, edges soft from use. My heart’s beating too fast for how still I’m sitting, pounding against my ribs like it’s trying to crawl closer to Mattheo on its own.
“You didn’t have to,” Theo says, nudging me with his shoulder. “Look at me, not him.”
I glance at Theo. He’s giving me that calm older-brother look, the one that says you’re being an idiot but I still like you. He only uses it when someone’s being dumb and emotional.
Which I am. Obviously.
“I’m fine,” I lie, the word catching a bit in my throat.
I’m not. I can feel the warmth of Mattheo’s gaze on the back of my neck like a ghost of a touch, even though I know he’s looking at her now. We spent last night tucked between the stacks in the library, his hand resting at the small of my back, his breath warm on my ear as he whispered about how he’d hex anyone who so much as smiled at me wrong. I can still smell his cologne on my scarf. I can still feel the press of his mouth against mine, slow and certain, the way he always kisses me like he’s choosing me all over again.
“She’s dramatic and fake,” Theo says, lowering his voice as he leans closer, pretending to read the recipe. “You don’t need to worry about Mattheo.”
I busy myself chopping roots, the knife glinting in the candlelight. The wood under my hand is slightly damp, the board wobbling with each stroke. “I’m not worried.”
I am.
Not because I don’t trust Mattheo. I do. I trust the way his voice softens when he says my name, the way he always finds my hand first in a crowd, the way he looks at me like there’s no one else in the room.
I just don’t trust girls who walk into a dungeon like it’s a stage.
Theo raises an eyebrow. “You’re cutting that like it insulted your family.”
I look down. The roots are a mess of uneven chunks and thin slivers, and my knuckles are white around the knife handle. My shoulders feel like they’re pulled up around my ears.
I glance up for half a second, just to prove to myself that I’m being ridiculous, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
She’s laughing at something Mattheo said, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her nails are painted a soft pink that matches the sheen of her lip gloss. Those long lashes flutter like she’s trying to levitate with them, each bat slow and deliberate.
Mattheo doesn’t pull away.
He smiles, that crooked, charming grin that always shows just the edge of one tooth more on the left, the one I kissed once just because it made him laugh. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he says something I can’t hear over the low hum of cauldrons heating and Slughorn’s distant rambling about antidotes.
Heat floods my cheeks. It feels like someone tipped a vial of Pepperup Potion into my veins. My fingers go slack for a moment, and the knife rests flat against the board. The classroom suddenly feels too small, the flicker of the torches too bright, the bubbling in my cauldron too loud.
I go quiet.
My chest tightens in that stupid, invisible way that makes everything feel slow and heavy, like someone’s quietly cast a full-body bind on the inside and left the outside to pretend nothing’s wrong. My throat feels thick. I swallow, but it doesn’t help.
I stop cutting the roots.
Theo notices.
“Hey,” he says softly, tapping his quill against my elbow. The bristles brush my sleeve, grounding. “Y/N.”
I don’t look at him.
If I do, I might cry, and crying in Potions is pathetic. Mattheo would lose his mind if he knew I was even thinking like this. He’d cup my face in his ink-stained hands, thumbs sweeping under my eyes, and tell me I’m the only one he’d burn down this castle for.
But he’s not here.
He’s there.
I’m too busy watching her lean in, her lip gloss catching the light like liquid starlight. Her fingers twirl a strand of her hair, slow and practiced, as she tilts her head toward him. Her shoulder brushes his, and she doesn’t move away.
And I wonder, with a sudden cold drop in my stomach, if he’s even noticed I’m watching.
If he can feel the way my gaze clings to him the way his fingers tangled in my hair last night.
If he remembers the way he said I love you against my mouth like it was some kind of vow.
If that still means something when she’s sitting right there, laughing like she already belongs in his story.
I curl my fingers tighter around the knife handle to stop the tremor, keep my eyes fixed on the back of his head, and wait to see if he turns around.
---
I gather my things quickly, not looking at him. My hands feel a little too full, my notes a little too wrinkled. The parchment scratches against my fingers, and the ink smudges where I’ve gripped too hard. Heat rushes up the back of my neck.
I can feel him behind me, lingering near the table with her, still chatting away like she doesn’t even realize I exist. Her laugh rings a little too bright over the low murmur of students packing up cauldrons and quills. A faint whiff of her floral perfume clings to the air as if she belongs there, in his space.
I don’t wait.
I’m out of the room fast, heart tight in my chest. The classroom door creaks as it swings shut behind me. Cold air from the dungeon corridor hits my face and makes my eyes sting. My boots echo too sharply against the stone hallway as I head toward the stairs, each step too loud, like I’m announcing my own humiliation.
“Y/N,” Mattheo calls from behind me.
I don’t stop. I walk faster, clutching my books like a shield.
“Oi, Y/N. Wait.”
I sigh, the sound catching in my throat, and stop halfway up the stairs. For a second I just stare at the rough gray stones in front of me, watching my breath fog faintly in the cool air. My chest feels tight, too crowded with words I don’t want to say.
Then I turn around slowly.
“What?”
Mattheo jogs the rest of the way to me, his tie loosened, hair falling into his eyes, his brow furrowed slightly. His expression is unreadable, but his tone is lighter, like he’s trying not to spook a skittish animal.
“You just ghosted me after class,” Mattheo says. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, too quickly. My voice sounds thin in the empty stairwell. “I’m fine.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a bad liar.”
I shrug, hugging my books a little tighter to my chest, the sharp corner digging into my ribs. I focus on that small sting instead of his face.
Mattheo takes a step closer, tilting his head, eyes searching mine. “You didn’t say a single word the whole last half of class.”
“I was focused.”
“You were quiet.”
“Is that a crime now?”
“No,” Mattheo says, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smirk. “But it’s suspicious.”
I roll my eyes and turn again, starting up the stairs. I don’t trust my voice anymore.
Mattheo follows, his footsteps steady behind mine. Of course he does. He never knows when to stop.
“You’re annoyed,” he says.
“I’m not,” I say, gripping the banister. The cold metal bites into my palm.
“You’re jealous.”
I freeze. The word lands right in the center of my chest, heavy and too accurate.
Then I turn around slowly. “I’m not.”
“You are,” Mattheo says, and now he’s grinning like he’s just figured out a riddle. His eyes are warm, not mocking, which somehow makes it worse. “You’re jealous of the new girl.”
“I’m not,” I say, my voice a little sharper than I intend. It ricochets off the stone walls. “I just didn’t want to watch her fall all over you in Potions like you’re the last bar of Honeydukes chocolate.”
Mattheo laughs, a short, low chuckle that curls in my stomach, and steps in close enough that I feel the warmth of him again. The faint scent of smoke and cinnamon clings to his robes, familiar and grounding. It makes me want to either melt into him or shove him away.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says softly.
“You didn’t stop her,” I mutter, staring at his chest instead of his eyes. His tie is crooked. His hand is still ink-stained from notes.
“Because I didn’t notice,” Mattheo says. His voice is patient but firm. “You think I was actually listening to whatever she was saying? I was trying to brew a bloody antidote and not fail.”
“You smiled at her.”
“I smile at Pansy when she hands me a quill. Doesn’t mean I’m flirting.”
I cross my arms, trying to fold myself up so I don’t have to feel so much. Heat prickles behind my eyes. I hate that this is getting to me, that one girl leaning in too close can make everything inside me feel fragile.
Mattheo gently reaches out and pulls my arms back down. His fingers are warm against my wrists, careful, like he’s afraid I’ll break.
“Listen to me,” he says. His voice drops, steady and sure. “You have nothing to be jealous of. Not when I’ve got you.”
I look up at him, finally, and he’s already watching me like he never looked away. His dark eyes are serious now, all trace of teasing gone. It’s the way he looks at me when the room is crowded and he’s on the other side of it, and somehow I still feel like the only person there.
“She’s… very blonde,” I say quietly. My insecurity sounds pathetic in the air between us.
He grins, slow and certain. “And you’re very mine.”
The words hit something deep in me, something that always feels a little unbelieving that this is real, that he chose me and keeps choosing me. My lips twitch despite myself.
“There it is,” Mattheo says, nudging my shoulder lightly with his. “There’s my girl.”
My heart flips at the words, stupid and hopeless. “I’m not your girl if you keep letting glitter-lipped Ravenclaws touch your arm.”
He laughs again, full and warm this time, the sound echoing softly up the stairwell. He slips his hands to my waist and pulls me close, careful but sure, like he knows exactly where I fit.
“I’ll start wearing spikes,” he murmurs, his breath brushing my forehead. “Problem solved.”
I rest my head against his chest for a moment, feeling the steady thud of his heart under my cheek. The stupid, tight tension that’s been coiled inside me since Potions starts to melt, seeping out of my shoulders, out of my clenched jaw. His arms around me feel like a shield against everything that scares me, even when I’m pretending it doesn’t.
For a second, it’s just the two of us in the cool, dim stairwell of Hogwarts, the distant hum of voices and clatter of footsteps far away. His fingers trace lazy circles at the small of my back, like he’s reminding himself I’m real.
“Come out tonight,” he says after a beat, his voice low near my ear.
“What?”
“There’s a party in the common room. Theo already nicked the good firewhisky. I want you there.”
I picture the Slytherin common room, green light from the lake rippling over stone walls, music thumping, bodies pressed close, laughter spilling everywhere. Part of me wants to hide in the library instead, where everything is quiet and predictable. Another part of me just wants to be where he is.
“I don’t know…” I start, but he’s already giving me that look, that crooked grin, head tilted, hair in his eyes, like he knows exactly how this is going to end.
“Let loose a little,” Mattheo says, brushing his thumb over my cheek. The touch sends a warm little spark skittering down my spine. “Dance with me. Get tipsy. Let me stare at you all night instead.”
“You already do that,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
“And I’m going to keep doing it,” he says. His eyes hold mine like a promise. “Now put on that little green top I like and come ruin lives with me.”
I roll my eyes, because that’s what he expects, because it keeps me from telling him how my heart is swelling so fast it almost hurts.
But I’m already smiling.
Because as infuriating as he is, as much as my jealousy still stings in the corners of my chest, there’s one thing I know as surely as the way his hand finds mine on the way back up the stairs.
I’m his. And he’s mine.
And for tonight, that’s enough.
---
Mattheo’s hand is warm on my waist, fingers curling into the small of my back as he leans in close. Our lips meet slow and hungry, the world narrowing down to just us. The couch beneath us feels soft, the cushions sagging just enough that I sink into them, and I can smell the faint cinnamon of his shampoo mixing with the sharp tang of firewhisky from the glasses scattered nearby. I can taste the lingering sweetness of pumpkin juice on his lips, chased by that smoky burn, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
I tug at his shirt collar, feeling the crisp fabric of his Slytherin tie brush my knuckles, and he chuckles against my mouth, low and familiar, the sound vibrating through my chest. His hands trail up my arms, calloused fingertips skimming sensitive skin, and the heat between us is almost enough to drown out the buzz of the party. My heart is pounding too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to break free of my ribs just to get closer to him. Every time his thumb drags along my wrist, I feel that same stupid rush I felt the first time he slipped his hand into mine by the Black Lake.
Around us, the Slytherin common room glows with green-tinged light from the lanterns, casting slow, rippling reflections from the lake across the stone walls. The fireplace crackles in the corner, its warmth licking at the chill that always hangs in the air down here. Someone’s enchanted the wireless in the corner, and a soft, lazy song drifts through the room, blending with the low murmur of voices.
Behind us, the rest of the gang is sprawled on the couches, each of them wrapped in their own little world. Theo is perched on the arm of a chair, animatedly telling a story with wild hand gestures, nearly sloshing his drink onto the rug every time he forgets he’s holding it. Blaise leans back, head tipped against the cushions, rolling his eyes but smirking anyway, like he’s pretending not to be amused. Enzo and Draco are half turned toward each other, shoulders touching as they exchange quiet jokes, their laughter quick and sharp before it dies back down. Pansy is stretched out like the queen of the room, legs tucked neatly to the side, a lazy hand draped over the back of the sofa as she watches everyone with that sharp, knowing gaze.
I’m vaguely aware of them, of the flicker of wandlight from Theo’s dramatics, of Pansy’s occasional snort when his story slips into obvious lie, but they all feel far away, like they’re behind a pane of glass. Right here, it’s just Mattheo and me.
He pulls back a fraction, just enough for his breath to fan across my lips. His eyes search mine, that familiar stormy brown softening at the edges like it always does when we’re alone. My chest tightens, that warm, aching feeling curling in deep. I love him. Not in the silly, throwaway way everyone at Hogwarts talks about it between classes, but in the terrifying, all-consuming way that makes my fingers tremble when I think about him not being here.
“You alright?” he murmurs, thumb brushing over my hip in a slow circle, like he’s grounding both of us.
I nod, though my throat feels thick. “Yeah. I’m… really alright.” My voice comes out softer than I meant it to, almost swallowed by the music, but his lips twitch into a small, private smile like he heard every word.
I lean in again, letting my forehead rest against his for a second, drinking in the way he smells, the warmth of him, the way his heartbeat thrums steady under my palm where it’s pressed to his chest. For a moment, the war outside these walls, the rumors, the dark marks and whispered allegiances, all of it blurs at the edges. It’s just us, in this sunken room under the lake, held together by the press of his hand on my waist and the promise in the way he’s looking at me.
When our lips meet again, slower this time, more certain, I feel the tension coil tighter between us, humming under my skin. It’s not just the firewhisky or the late hour or the way his fingers are tracing patterns on my back. It’s the quiet, unspoken certainty that whatever happens beyond Hogwarts, whatever battles wait for us, this… this is real. And right now, it’s enough.
“You’re gonna kill me with these stories, mate,” Blaise says, sipping something dark and strong from a chipped silver goblet that catches the Slytherin-green torchlight.
“I’m just getting started,” Theo replies, grinning over the rim of his glass. He’s clearly enjoying the attention, eyes bright, cheeks faintly flushed from firewhisky and the warmth of the common room.
I pull back from Mattheo with a lazy, lingering smile, lips tingling from his kiss, just as he sighs and pushes himself up from the worn leather sofa. His hand slips from my waist, fingers trailing along my side like he’s reluctant to break contact.
“I’m gonna grab a drink,” he says, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His knuckles skim my cheek, and my skin buzzes where he touches me.
“Don’t be gone long,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. It comes out more like a quiet plea than a playful request. Merlin, he always does this to me.
He winks, that familiar little half-smirk I’ve seen a thousand times in the dim light of this room. “You know I won’t.”
Mattheo weaves through the crowd, broad shoulders disappearing between laughing Slytherins and scattered Ravenclaws and Gryffindors who’ve somehow slipped past the house rivalry for the night. The low vaulted ceiling glows with greenish light, casting strange shadows across his back until he’s swallowed by the cluster near the makeshift bar, where bottles clink and someone charms the firewhisky to pour itself.
Theo glances over at me, eyebrows raised, the noise of the party fading to a low, steady hum around us.
“So,” he says, voice low enough that it’s only for me, “how’ve you been handling the new girl?”
My stomach twists with something sharp and sour. I scoff, rolling my eyes as I glance toward where Mattheo vanished between bodies and floating candles.
“That girl? She’s plastic,” I say quietly, trying to sound casual instead of defensive. “Fake lashes for days, lips like she’s smothered them in honey, and that whole act like she owns the place.” I picture her leaning against the bar, tossing her shiny hair, acting like she belongs in our corner of the dungeons when everyone knows she doesn’t.
The group leans in, drawn to the swell of gossip like moths to a flame.
“Totally,” Blaise agrees, smirking over the rim of his drink. “And the way she laughs at everything Mattheo says? It’s embarrassing.” He mimics a high-pitched giggle, and a few people snicker.
“Like a puppy trying to get attention,” Enzo adds with a grin, flicking ash from the tip of his cigarette into a floating glass ashtray that hovers near his shoulder.
Pansy snorts, crossing one leg over the other as her green silk skirt whispers against the leather. “Please, she couldn’t hold a candle to you.”
Heat creeps up my neck. I smirk, feeling a little burst of pride settle warm and solid in my chest. Mattheo loves me. We’re not some silly fling. We’ve survived late nights in this common room, detentions that stretched until dawn, whispered arguments in empty corridors that ended in breathless apologies and fingers tangled in robes.
“Exactly,” I say, lifting my drink to my lips even though I barely taste it.
The fire crackles in the grate, throwing sparks that drift upward and vanish. Somewhere across the room, someone turns the music up; a low, thudding beat that makes the walls seem to pulse. Laughter rises and falls. Cards flick through the air in a half-finished game of Exploding Snap.
Suddenly, Blaise’s eyes snap up, his expression changing so fast my heart misses a beat. A dark edge creeps into his smile and then wipes it away entirely.
“Oh fuck,” he mutters, the words landing heavy in the air between us.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My fingers tighten around my glass.
I turn sharply toward the doorway Mattheo disappeared through, my heart already picking up speed like it knows something I don’t. My gaze locks onto the archway near the bar, and then my breath catches.
Mattheo’s lips are pressed against the Ravenclaw girl’s. His fingers are tangled in her shiny blonde hair, holding her close like she’s the one he’s been kissing all night. Her hands clutch at the front of his shirt.
For a second, my brain refuses to understand what I’m seeing. The room feels like it’s tilted, like the floor’s dropped half a meter and left me standing on nothing.
My stomach plummets, a sick, cold freefall that knocks the air out of my lungs.
Theo stares, wide-eyed, his mouth parted around a word he hasn’t said yet.
“Mate…” Blaise says again, voice rougher, more stunned this time.
I feel a cold sting behind my eyes and swallow hard, but it doesn’t move the lump lodged in my throat. My fingers loosen and then clamp down around my drink so tight my knuckles ache. I’m freezing from the inside out, like someone dumped me into the Black Lake in midwinter.
I can’t move. I’m rooted to the spot, muscles locked, like my entire body just slammed into a block of ice.
We’re in love. He tells me he loves me. He looks at me like I’m the only person who ever mattered. He wraps his arms around me in this same room and whispers that he’ll never let anything touch us. I see all of that, all at once, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces at my feet.
My heart’s pounding loud enough to drown out the music. Each beat slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. My breath catches somewhere between my ribs and my throat, and the edges of my vision blur like I’ve stepped outside my own body.
Everything slows. The flicker of the firelight against the stone walls, the soft whoosh of robes as people shift, the low, confused murmurs starting to ripple through the crowd. Even the pounding of my own pulse feels distant and muted, like it’s echoing down a long, dark corridor.
Mattheo’s lips are still moving against hers, fingers still twisted in her blonde hair. He looks the way he looks when he’s kissing me, and that thought hits so hard I actually feel nauseous. I’m stuck, unable to look away or move, like someone’s cast Petrificus Totalus on my heart.
Then Theo moves.
One second he’s beside me, rigid with shock, and the next he explodes into action. His chair scrapes harshly against the stone as he shoves it back. He’s across the room in what feels like two strides, shoving past a few startled fifth years. Someone yelps, a glass shatters against the floor, but Theo doesn’t stop.
He grabs Mattheo by the shoulders and yanks him away from her like he’s pulling him out of a fire. Their bodies jerk apart. The Ravenclaw girl stumbles back, heels skidding on the flagstones, eyes wide with shock and smeared lipstick.
Theo shoves Mattheo hard, chest to chest, and Mattheo stumbles, boots scraping against the stone, but he catches himself. His glare snaps up, sharp and furious, like a cornered animal.
“What the bloody hell, man?” Theo spits, his voice low and raw, shaking with barely contained rage.
The room hushes. Conversation falters. Even the music seems to dim, the enchanted instruments hovering in the corner growing so quiet they’re almost silent.
Mattheo’s jaw tightens. His chest rises and falls fast, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Slowly, like it costs him something, he looks over at me. At my frozen, stunned face. Our eyes meet, and something flickers in his.
Regret. Defiance. Shame. Guilt so sharp it almost looks like pain.
For a beat, I think he might come to me, might cross the space between us and say my name the way he always does, soft and certain. Might tell me this isn’t what it looks like, that there’s a spell, a trick, a reason.
Theo doesn’t give him a chance.
“I don’t care what the hell you think you’re doing,” Theo says, voice steady now but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Not when she’s with her.”
Heat rushes up my neck again, but it’s not pride this time. It’s humiliation, raw and blistering. I can feel eyes on me from every direction. People are staring. Whispering. Waiting to see if I explode or crumble.
The Ravenclaw girl backs away slowly, biting her lip, her mascara smudged under her eyes. She smooths her skirt with trembling fingers, glancing between me and Mattheo like she wants to disappear into the stone.
The rest of us just stand there, holding our breath, the weight of it pressing on my chest until I’m sure something has to give.
I blink a few times, trying to shake off the numbness. My vision clears just enough for me to see Mattheo clearly, the hollow look behind his eyes, the way his shoulders curve in like he’s bracing for a blow.
The party’s gone silent. The torches crackle, someone coughs, a bottle rolls lazily across the floor and bumps into the wall with a dull clink. All I can hear, above everything, is the sound of my own heartbeat furious and shattered, echoing in the cold dungeon air.
And underneath the fury and the shock, there’s a tiny, terrified thought that digs its claws into me: what if this is the moment everything we are breaks for good?
Mattheo’s chest heaves, his eyes flashing with frustration and something else, guilt maybe, glinting beneath the anger. He drags a hand over the back of his neck, fingers digging into his skin like he’s trying to ground himself, gaze fixed anywhere but on me.
“It’s not what it looks like,” he says quickly, his voice tight and rough around the edges.
I swallow hard, my throat burning. My hands tremble just a little at my sides, fingertips cold despite the warmth of the crowded Slytherin common room. The low murmur of conversations and the crackle of the greenish fire in the hearth seem to fade into a muffled hum.
“Then what is it, Mattheo?” I manage, though my voice comes out thinner than I want. “Because it looks like you just kissed someone who isn’t me.”
He takes a step toward me, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact, but Theo moves in smoothly, placing himself between us. His arms cross over his chest, his stance loose but unyielding, eyes sharp as he looks Mattheo up and down, daring him silently to push past.
“Give her space,” Theo warns quietly, but there’s steel in it.
I pull in a shaky breath, the air thick with the scent of firewhisky and perfume and something sharp, like smoke and hurt. My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it’s rattling my ribs. Finally, I force myself to meet Mattheo’s eyes.
They’re wide and dark, filled with panic and something raw that twists in my chest. I hate that even now, part of me wants to run to him, to smooth my hand over his cheek, to pretend this never happened.
“You’re mine,” I say softly, my voice breaking just a bit on the last word. “Or at least, I thought you were.”
His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking as he looks away for a heartbeat, then back at me like he can’t bear to look anywhere else.
“I was… it was stupid,” he mutters, words tumbling over each other. “She’s just”
“Just what?” I cut in, the edge in my voice surprising even me. “A distraction? Someone to flirt with when it’s convenient?” My chest feels tight, like there’s a band around it that someone’s slowly pulling.
“No!” His voice rises a little, echoing harshly off the stone walls, and a few people turn to look. He catches himself, swallowing, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m sorry. I messed up.”
I stare at him, at his flushed cheeks and the way his hands flex restlessly at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them if he’s not touching me. I want to believe him because I know him, because I know how he looks when he’s lying and how he looks when he’s trying not to fall apart. And right now, he looks like he’s holding himself together by a thread.
But the image of him with her, her lipstick smeared, his hands too close, keeps replaying in my head. It hurts like a curse I can’t counter. I want to scream, to shove him, to hex the wall until it cracks. I want to grab the nearest plate from the snack table and throw it just to hear something else shatter besides me.
Instead, I just feel hollow, like someone scooped everything inside me out and left an echo.
Theo steps forward, his presence solid and steady beside me. He lays a hand on my shoulder, warm and grounding, his thumb brushing once in a quiet gesture that says he’s here, that I’m not alone in this room full of people.
“You don’t have to deal with this alone,” Theo says, his voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant only for me.
Across the room, Blaise and Pansy exchange a look, their usual smirks gone. Blaise’s brows are drawn together, and Pansy’s mouth is a thin line, her eyes darting between me and Mattheo. Even Enzo, who’s almost always got that lazy, amused expression, looks serious now, his drink forgotten in his hand.
The music from the wireless crackles on, but no one’s dancing anymore. The room feels heavy, like the party died without warning and no one’s been told what to do next. The emerald flames in the fireplace cast shifting light over the stone walls, making everything seem a little distorted, a little unreal.
Mattheo runs a hand through his hair, tugging at it like he’s on the verge of tearing it out. His eyes are shining, and for a second I swear he might actually cry, which is something I’ve almost never seen him do.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he says, and the way his voice breaks on lose hits me harder than any hex.
I glance down at the worn rug beneath our feet, at the scattered cards from a half-finished game of Exploding Snap, at a little burn mark near my shoe. My vision blurs and I blink quickly, but a tear slips out anyway, trailing hot down my cheek. My heart feels like it’s splitting clean in two, love and hurt pulling in opposite directions.
“Then don’t,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking him for. To fix it. To go back. To prove that everything we’ve shared, every soft look and stolen moment in empty classrooms and late-night walks by the Black Lake, still means something.
Silence stretches between us, thick and fragile. No one moves. The only sound is the low pop of the fire and the distant rush of the lake pressing against the windows.
For the first time all night, standing there in the green-tinted half light with my heart in pieces and his eyes on me like I’m the only thing that matters, I wonder if this is the beginning of something breaking for good, or the painful, messy start of something real finally beginning to mend.
Next part
