vivi

Most muggleborns spend their lives running toward magic.

After living without it for the first eleven years of their lives, they’re all too eager to lose themselves in a world of spells and enchantments. They trade in double-decker buses and arbitrary chores for castles full of ghosts and a life that feels, at first, like ease. Once you’ve flown a broomstick or charmed a kettle to sing, it’s hard to imagine settling for anything less.

The journey usually only goes one way — from the world of the ordinary to the world of the impossible. Usually.

You moved back to the muggle world shortly after the war ended, wanting to put a great deal of distance between yourself and everything magical. There were a multitude of reasons for that.

To begin with, you wanted to be closer to your family. The war had loomed like a shadow over everything for so long, and when you came so close to losing them, it made you realize just how much you’d taken them for granted. You lived with them in your childhood home for a few months before moving into your own apartment only a few streets over.

Second, you were tired — bone-deep and soul-sick. After witnessing so much destruction, you longed for quiet. The wizarding world, despite its victory, was in a state of chaos. The Ministry was being rebuilt from the ground up, and though they had claimed, with great sympathy, that it was unfair the weight of the world had fallen on such young shoulders, they had no issue asking you — along with Harry, Ron, and Hermione — to serve under Ministry officials and aid in the capture of the remaining Death Eaters.

You had all agreed on one thing: the Ministry was not to be trusted. And with that shared understanding, the four of you parted ways.

Lastly — and most frustratingly — the muggle world was the only place you could escape the insipid reporters who seemed determined to mine every moment of the Golden Quartet’s lives for public consumption. It was another point the four of you agreed on: you wanted no part of the circus.

Now, only your closest friends had your address. Which is why you could only conclude that this was a complete. And utter. Coincidence.

You came home that Tuesday evening with a grocery bag in one hand and your wand tucked safely into your boot. The hallway smelled faintly of burnt toast and lemon-scented floor cleaner, the kind your landlord swore by but never quite masked the damp. You rounded the corner toward your door and stopped short.

There he was.

Mattheo Riddle, standing in front of the apartment next to yours, two battered suitcases at his feet and a flat key dangling uselessly from his hand.

He looked up at the exact moment you did. His fingers froze on the key. Your hand stilled on the strap of your bag.

And for a long, suspended moment, the two of you just stared.

You hadn’t seen him in years — not since the war — and yet time didn’t seem to matter. Recognition crashed through the hallway like a thunderclap. His curls were longer, face more drawn, shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes. But it was him. It was undeniably him.

Mattheo Riddle.

In your building.

The silence dragged on until it became unbearable. You were the first to blink.

"...Hi." You said, a little breathless, a little stunned.

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you like he was trying to convince himself you weren’t real. You couldn’t blame him.

"...You."

You raised a brow, "Me."

A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost unsure, "I didn’t know you lived here."

You shifted your groceries in your arms, "I didn’t know you lived here."

Another beat passed, longer this time. The key in his hand twitched like he’d forgotten it was there.

"I don’t," He said finally, "I mean… I just got the place."

You glanced at the door behind him — your door. The one you’d walked through a hundred times without incident. Now it felt like the threshold to something else entirely.

"Next door, huh?" You said, voice light but heart thudding.

He nodded, "Yeah. Lucky me."

You couldn’t tell if he meant it sarcastically, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

There was another pause. Not uncomfortable exactly — just thick with the weight of everything unspoken. You cleared your throat and stepped toward your own door, shifting your keys into your hand.

"Well," You said, half-turning toward him, "If you need help with anything, you know where to find me."

Mattheo blinked, like he hadn’t expected that — kindness, or maybe familiarity. Something flickered behind his eyes. He nodded.

"...Thanks." He said quietly.

You gave him a small nod before unlocking your door and slipping inside, heart hammering as you leaned against the back of it.

Mattheo Riddle. Living next door. You hadn't even unpacked your milk yet, and already the past was knocking.

The morning started like most others — quiet, a little rushed. You always managed to convince yourself you'd dress plain or skip makeup, severely underestimating how long it actually took to get ready. The apartment was practically hell to walk around in — you liked to sleep with the air conditioner blasting, which made getting out of bed feel like leaving heaven. You locked your door with one hand and slung your bag over your shoulder with the other, moving on instinct, drinking down a yogurt smoothie.

The building was still waking up — murmurs behind closed doors, the distant clink of pipes, a cat meowing two floors down. You padded down the stairs toward the lobby, head bowed slightly as you adjusted your coat, not expecting anyone to be around.

But then the front door swung open, and Mattheo Riddle stepped inside.

You almost didn’t recognize him at first. His hoodie was tied around his waist, leaving him in nothing but joggers and a damp black T-shirt clinging to his chest. His curls stuck to his forehead, chest still heaving from the run.

And then — he grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it up to wipe the sweat from his face.

You froze mid-step.

Because, well. There were abs. Sharp, defined, very real abs. The kind you’d only read about in romance novels or seen in movies — not the kind you expected to run into before 8 a.m. The curve of his ribs, the sharp V of his hips, the abs that could definitely grate cheese, the faint scars vanishing beneath the waistband of his joggers — you saw all of it, burned into your retinas before you could blink it away.

And then he saw you.

His eyes widened, and the shirt dropped instantly back into place.

"Oh." He said, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

"Morning." You said, trying your best to sound noncommittal.

"Morning." He said, a bit too quickly.

He glanced toward the door like he might bolt.

Instead, he stepped aside and held it open for you.

"Thanks." You said, quietly.

He nodded, still flustered, eyes flicking down then back up like he wasn’t sure where to look.

You stepped into the sunlight and crossed the lot toward your car, trying hard not to think about the abs. Not to think about the sweat. Not to think about the way your heart had momentarily leapt into your throat like it had no business being there.

God, you were such a teenager sometimes.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

You grabbed the mail like you always did — a quick swipe from the box in the lobby before you headed back upstairs. Most days it was bills, junk flyers, brochures. Nothing worth more than a glance.

But tonight, when you finally dumped the envelopes onto your kitchen counter, your fingers froze.

There, on top of the usual clutter, was a single letter that didn’t belong.

The paper was thick and creamy, the kind that whispered wealth and importance. The edges were hand-cut, the ink flowed in perfect, curling calligraphy, and the wax seal stamped firmly with the unmistakable Malfoy family crest glinted in the kitchen light.

You didn’t have to open it to know who it was for.

Your address was written there, clearly a mistake, but following it was the name Mattheo Riddle. Your fingers traced over the letters without realizing.

You stared at it, thumb brushing over the smooth paper as a knot twisted in your stomach.

Do you knock on his door? Drop it in the mail slot and pretend it was an accident? It felt like less work to just walk over and hand it to him — and honestly, less weird.

You grabbed your coat and stepped out, the letter folded carefully in your hand.

When you reached his door, your knuckles hovered for a moment before you finally rapped softly.

The door opened a crack almost immediately.

He was surprised to see you. Actually, it seemed like he wasn’t expecting any guests, considering the way he was clutching his wand with a grip that almost turned his knuckles white at his side. You tried not to hold it against him. After all, you had been exactly the same during the first couple months of living there. You had cast protection charms and wards over your parents’ house like a crazy lady. Even the slightest noise woke you, and you’d wake up in a cold sweat each night.

However, you definitely felt better the second he noticed it was you — the tension melted from his body.

You held out the letter, voice low.

“It was in my mail. Thought you should have it.”

He blinked, taking it with a slow nod.

“Thanks.” He said quietly.

You hesitated, then added, “Accident, I swear.”

He gave a small, dry chuckle.

“Don’t worry.” He said, lifting his eyes from the letter and back to you, "Thank you."

The door shut softly.

It happened three nights later.

You were curled up on the couch in mismatched pajamas, hoodie half-zipped and a blanket tangled around your legs. A sitcom rerun flickered on the TV, but you weren’t really watching — just letting it hum in the background while your tea cooled on the coffee table.

Then came the knock.

You paused mid-sip.

Another knock. Gentle, hesitant. Like whoever it was had seriously debated whether to even bother.

You padded to the door and opened it — just a crack — and, of course, there he was.

Mattheo.

Hair a mess in a way that still looked unfairly attractive, a tight compression shirt that honestly made you embarrassed on behalf of all womankind, and a bashful-but-trying-hard-to-look-nonchalant expression on his face. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched, like he didn’t want to be there but had talked himself into it anyway.

"…Hey." He said, voice low, like it felt too loud in your quiet hallway.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised, "Hey."

"I, um…" He shifted awkwardly. One foot stepped back, then forward again, like he couldn’t decide whether to flee or stay. It was incredibly unlike him, to the point that it made you concerned, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure?" You said, cautiously.

A pause. He looked genuinely tortured.

Then, finally:

"How do I use the microwave?"

You stared at him.

He rushed to add, "I asked the landlord. I swear I did. There’s just… so many buttons. I don’t know what half of them do. This is the fifth time this week my meal is half cold and half hot and I don’t know what else to do because every time I use magic in that damned apartment, all the other technology freaks the fuck out."

You blinked.

That was… the most you’d ever heard him speak.

And not just speak — ramble. Rushed and impulsive, words tumbling out too fast for him to rein in. It felt squirrelly in a way that didn’t fit the boy you remembered from school. Back then, he always had that cocky, relaxed smile, the one that lingered too long and made people nervous. When it wasn’t that, it was fury — sharp and volatile. You’d seen enough of both expressions to find this new one strange.

A part of you almost felt bad. Clearly, the Muggle world wasn’t treating him kindly. And the fact that he was asking you for help — considering how often your friends used to butt heads with his back at Hogwarts — well. That had to sting his pride.

Still, you’d both been on the same side by the end of the war. So you supposed you could let bygones be bygones.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

You failed.

"Sorry," You said, half behind your hand, "It’s just—"

"No, no, go ahead." He said, dryly.

That only made it worse.

You opened the door wider, grabbing your keys and forgoing slippers since you were just walking a few feet to his place anyway, still smiling, "Alright. Lemme see."

His apartment looked almost identical to yours — same layout, same creaky floorboard just inside the threshold — but it felt different. Dimmer. Colder. Like someone was borrowing the space rather than living in it.

The walls were bare, not a single photo or poster in sight. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and something herbal, like spellwork left to linger. A wand lay carelessly on the coffee table, half-tucked beneath a rolled-up Daily Prophet. Books and scrolls were stacked beside it in frighteningly neat piles, next to a tea mug that had clearly gone cold.

You followed him into the kitchen, where the microwave sat perched on the counter like an unwanted guest.

“So,” You said, stuffing your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, “What are we microwaving?”

He reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a sad-looking cup of ramen. The cheap kind. The kind your dad used to stress about every time he caught you eating it — full of sodium, he'd complain, and then buy you another six-pack the next week because he knew you liked the chicken flavor.

“This.” he said, like it was obvious.

You stared at the cup. Then at him. Then back at the cup.

“…You know you’re supposed to make the water hot first before putting the noodles in, right?”

He blinked at you, genuinely confused, “...Am I?”

You stepped forward, peeled back the foil lid with practiced fingers, and pointed at the fine print along the rim.

“The instructions are written right here.”

“They’re in Korean.” He muttered.

You paused. Then looked down. Then back at him.

“…Right.”

“I don’t know how to translate it without using a spell.”

You tilted your head, “Can’t you use your phone?”

He went quiet, eyes drifting away — not defensive, just… quiet. You immediately regretted the question. Of course he couldn’t. The man barely knew how to use a microwave. What were you expecting?

You looked back down at the sad little noodle cup, steam starting to curl from under the foil lid. Then around his kitchen — barren shelves, a half-stocked fridge, one lonely fork sitting in the drying rack like it had never been part of a set.

“Is this what you’ve been eating all week?” You asked slowly, “Badly cooked noodles?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t exactly the answer… but also kind of was.

“They’re not that bad.” He said, avoiding your eyes.

He was still quiet.

“If you’re gonna live off this stuff,” You said, softer now, “You should at least dress it up a little. Toss in an egg. Use bone broth instead of water. Add some greens. Carrots, spinach. Leftover meat, if you’ve got it.”

He tilted his head, brows drawing together slightly like you’d just introduced him to an entirely new concept.

“Right,” He said, “Of course. Bone broth.”

You squinted at him, “Have you… eaten anything not made in this cup since you moved in?”

He hesitated.

Which was answer enough.

You sighed, slow and through your nose, gaze drifting back to the microwave, then to him.

You shouldn’t push.

You knew that.

He hadn’t let you in for tea. He hadn’t sat you down and started talking about his life. He’d asked for help with one tiny thing — and even that probably took more effort than he’d admit. If you offered more… would he take it badly? Would he realize he’d already slipped up just by letting you in this far? Would he shut down, retreat, snap the door shut like none of this ever happened?

Maybe. Probably.

You wouldn’t risk it.

But gods, when you looked at that flavorless brick of noodles, and the silence that filled his apartment like a second layer of drywall, and that one fork drying on its own…

You just couldn’t help but feel bad.

“Next time you’re at the store,” You started, then paused — glanced again at the sad little cup on the counter, then back at him.

Actually… screw it.

“…Forget that,” You said instead, keeping your voice light, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, “I’ve got some stuff in my fridge. Eggs, some spinach, maybe a little leftover rotisserie chicken. Won’t take long.”

He looked at you. Not startled, exactly — but something flickered behind his eyes, like he hadn’t expected the offer. Like he wasn’t sure why you’d make it. Like maybe he didn’t think he deserved it.

“You don’t have to do that.” He said quickly, but it didn’t come out sharp. Just automatic. Defensive, out of habit.

You shrugged, already halfway to the door.

“Just give me a sec,” You said, throwing him a quick smile, “Stay here. Don’t burn the noodles.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t stop you, either.

And that, you figured, was enough.

You came back five minutes later, juggling a small pot containing a couple of eggs, a container of broth, a Ziploc bag of spinach, and a pair of chopsticks you’d swiped from your drawer on the way out. The pot knocked softly against your knee as you nudged the door open with your elbow.

Mattheo blinked at you from the kitchen, clearly still not convinced this was real.

“You really didn’t have to do that.” He said, stepping aside as you brushed past him.

“I know,” You said breezily, already unloading your arms onto the counter, “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He opened his mouth — probably to protest again — but you cut him off with a look. Not sharp, just firm.

“I’m not trying to invade your kitchen or anything,” You added, fiddling with the pot lid, “But that sad little cup deserves better. And you kind of looked like you were about to eat it dry.”

“I wasn’t.” He muttered.

You filled the pot with the bone broth and placed it on the stove, clicking the burner on with practiced ease, "Mm-hm.”

He exhaled a short, reluctant laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “You’re really doing this?”

“If it helps, I’m not being nice,” You said, half-smiling, “I haven’t eaten dinner yet. So if you want to make it fair, give me a bowl too.”

That caught him off guard. He paused, then nodded once, slow and quiet.

“…Alright. Deal.”

You tried not to smile too much as he handed you another cup of ramen from the cabinet. It was chipped at the rim and slightly too small, but it would do. You emptied both noodle cakes into the pot, swapped the water for broth, and got to work, talking him through it as casually as you could.

“You wanna add the spinach last,” You explained, stirring gently, “It cooks fast. And I like cracking the egg straight in — makes the broth thicker. But if you’d rather boil it on the side and slice it, that works too.”

He watched you carefully — not just your hands, but your face, your posture, the way you moved around like you weren’t nervous to take up space in his kitchen. Like you belonged. Like you didn’t find this strange at all.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked quietly.

You looked up from the pot, letting the corner of your mouth tug up just slightly.

“Because,” You said, “I’m very hungry.”

That earned a real smile. Small. Barely there. But real.

“…Thanks.” He said after a beat.

You shrugged, “Don’t thank me till you taste it.”

When you finally passed him a bowl — warm, fragrant, with steam curling gently over the rim — he stared at it like it was more than just dinner. Like it meant something. Like maybe you did.

You sat beside him at the small kitchen table, your shoulder brushing his for a moment before you settled back.

Not quite friends. Not yet. But maybe something was beginning.

You stood in front of his door again, two days later, staring at the worn wood like it might open on its own and save you the trouble.

In your hands was a small Tupperware container — the clear kind, fogged at the edges from the warmth still trapped inside. A generous slice of cake sat inside, a little dented from the walk up and decorated with frankly ridiculous neon frosting. The plastic lid was smudged with your fingerprints from how tightly you’d been gripping it, like maybe it would give you some courage if you just held on long enough.

You’d already knocked three times in your head. Once with your actual hand. And still — no follow-through.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, mumbling under your breath like a lunatic, “Okay, just leave it at the door, ring the bell, run. Not that serious. Not weird. It’s cake. Everyone likes cake. It’s not a big deal. You’re not weird. This is normal. People bring food to people. People are nice. You’re being nice.”

Your fingers twitched toward the doorbell again — and then froze halfway.

“…Unless it’s weird. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe—”

“Can I help you?”

You jumped. Hard.

The container nearly slipped from your hands as you turned — and there he was. Mattheo. Just a few feet away, keys in hand, dark curls a little damp like he’d just come in from the rain. His brows were pulled slightly together, his voice caught somewhere between confusion and caution.

Not quite hostile. But not welcoming either.

“Oh—hi,” You said, voice a little too high, a little too bright, “I was just…”

He looked at you. Then at the Tupperware. Then back again.

You cleared your throat and held the container out between you like it might protect you both from what you weren’t saying. A peace offering. A bribe. A white flag covered in blue frosting.

“I thought you might like this.” You said, trying your best to sound casual, “It’s… cake.”

He didn’t take it.

His expression shifted — cooled, hardened, like a door slamming shut behind his eyes. His voice dropped, quiet and clipped.

“You don’t have to pity me.”

The words landed like a slap.

You blinked, “What?”

“I’m not some sad project,” He said, jaw tight, “You don’t have to keep showing up like this. I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your charity.”

It hit you then — not just what he said, but what he meant.

The defensiveness wasn’t about you. Not really. It was about the way he saw himself. The walls he'd spent years building around the idea that maybe he didn't deserve care. That if someone reached for him, they must want something in return — or worse, they must be trying to fix him. To mold him into something less complicated. Less dark. Less him.

You didn’t look away.

Your voice dropped to something softer. Something honest.

“Mattheo… it’s just cake. There are no strings.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you. Like he was trying to see through the frosting to the catch hidden underneath. You held his gaze anyway.

“I got it from work.” You added, gentler now, “And I don’t like eating dessert alone.”

That gave him pause. A flicker of something — uncertainty, maybe — passed across his face.

Then, finally, he let out a quiet sigh, brushing past you to the door.

“…Alright.” He muttered, unlocking it, “Fine. Come in.”

You followed him inside, your heart thudding in your chest like you’d just sprinted through a battlefield and not… offered someone cake.

The apartment was exactly as you remembered. Same dim lighting. Same scuffed floors. Same silence that felt like it had weight. You stepped into the small kitchen, placed the container gently on the table like it was something fragile, and cracked the lid open with a soft pop.

Blue frosting beamed up at you — cheerful and absurd — despite the fact that the image was slightly smushed from the walk. The cartoon dog grinning from the top of the cake looked like it had just burst into song, paws raised in eternal celebration.

Mattheo squinted at it like it was a piece of contemporary art meant to make him think deeper.

“…The fuck is that?”

You grinned, “That would be a talking dingo.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

You gestured to the cake, “From this Australian cartoon called Bluey. The kids are obsessed.”

His expression didn’t change, “You got this from… kids?”

“I work at a kindergarten/” You said, already crossing to the drying rack and pulling out two mismatched forks like you lived there, “One of the kids had a birthday today. He got Bluey — obviously. This is the leftover slice of Bluey’s mom. Or aunt. Or whatever. She didn’t make the cut.”

Mattheo blinked at you like you’d just casually confessed to smuggling illegal potions across the border.

“You work with children?”

“Yup.”

“…Why?”

You snorted, handing him a fork, “Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” He said, catching the fork with a nod of thanks, “I just— You could’ve done anything. Back at Hogwarts, you talked about becoming an Auror, didn’t you? Top of the class in Defense. You could’ve had your pick of the Ministry. What changed?”

Your smile faltered.

Your gaze lowered to the cake, the blue frosting suddenly too bright.

“A lot has changed, Mattheo.” You said quietly.

When you looked up again, your eyes met his — and something passed between you. Something that had the magic that was interwoven through every single fiber of his body begin to vibrate and reach for you.

It was lonely in muggle London. Finally, he had someone who understood. The war. The fallout. The ache in your bones that hadn’t quite gone away.

“You know that better than anyone.”

There was a moment where he looked at you differently. Like he was seeing you again for the first time. Not as the student he used to know. Not as his overly hospitable neighbour. But as someone scarred and soft in all the same places he was.

You didn’t touch him. But part of you wanted to. Wanted to reach across the space between you and tell him about yourself. Tell him everything.

Instead, you shrugged, trying to find your voice again.

“I’m not really qualified or anything.” You said, softer now, “But my mum used to teach there. She still has some connections. Put in a good word for me when I needed work. And apparently my talent for counter-curses means nothing next to my ability to recite Five Little Ducks from memory.”

He huffed out a laugh — quiet and unexpected — through his nose. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

You sat together at the small kitchen table, forks in hand, slowly dismantling the slice of cake like it might bite back. You felt a small pang of guilt as Bluey’s mom lost her frosted ears — may she rest in peace — but if there was one thing you’d learned about toddler birthday cakes, it was that they were criminally delicious.

Mattheo didn’t say much. Just watched you with careful eyes, taking small, cautious bites like he wasn’t used to sharing anything — not food, not silence, not company.

You didn’t fill the quiet. You let it settle.

It was nearly two in the morning when you heard it.

A dull thud, followed by the sharp crack of something hitting the floor — hard. Then silence. Then a low, ragged sound that didn’t sound like words at all.

You sat up in bed, heart already pounding.

Your apartment was quiet, cloaked in darkness and long, familiar shadows — but the noise hadn’t come from within your own space.

It had come from next door.

From Mattheo’s.

You hesitated, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath your bare feet. You waited, listening, willing the silence to stay. But then it came again.

A heavy scrape. A crash. The sound of something shattering.

You didn’t think. You just grabbed your wand.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in the weak amber glow of the sconces that never quite worked right. His door was slightly ajar. Not wide — but not locked, either.

You raised your hand, knuckles grazing the wood.

“Mattheo?” You called softly.

No answer.

“Mattheo, it’s me—are you okay?”

Still nothing. Just the same jagged, uneven breathing. Fast. Erratic. Distant.

You glanced down at the doorknob.

“Alohomora.” You whispered, tapping the brass with the tip of your wand.

The latch clicked open.

You stepped inside quietly, careful not to make too much noise. The apartment was dark, save for the silver wash of streetlight spilling through the blinds. The glow cut harsh lines across the floor and furniture, shadow and light slicing the room in half.

And there — crouched beside the overturned coffee table — was Mattheo.

His back was to you. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat. His shoulders trembled with barely-contained tension. A mug lay shattered nearby, and his wand was discarded, half-buried under a scattered pile of scrolls. His hands were tangled in his hair, gripping at his scalp like he was trying to hold something in — or hold something out.

He didn’t see you come in.

“Hey,” You said gently, not stepping closer, “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

No response.

His whole body was wound tight, like a live wire — still in the middle of something he hadn’t escaped yet. Like he’d fallen asleep on a battlefield and hadn’t managed to wake up.

You didn’t cross the room. Not yet.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” You added, softer, “I just… heard something. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly — like he was dragging himself back into his body inch by inch — Mattheo turned his head.

His eyes met yours.

At first, they were wild. Unfocused. Distant. Then came recognition — flickering and faint. And then, quickly after, the crash of shame.

He looked away.

“Shit,” He muttered, voice hoarse, “I’m fine. It’s fine. Sorry to wake you. You should go back.”

But you didn’t move.

You stepped forward — quietly, carefully — crouching just far enough away not to crowd him, but close enough to be within reach.

“Are you alright?” You asked, voice calm and low, “Were you asleep?”

He let out a bitter laugh — short and flat, “That wasn’t sleep.”

You waited.

His hands had fallen to his lap. You could see now that his knuckles were raw and red, scraped open from something — maybe the wall, maybe the floor, maybe just the way he fought his own mind.

You nodded toward the couch, “Do you want to sit down?”

He didn’t answer, but after a beat, he pushed himself to his feet. Stiff. Tired. Like his body had only just realized it could stop fighting.

You followed him.

He collapsed onto the cushions like his bones had turned to dust. You sat beside him, not touching, not speaking, not offering false comfort.

Just… there.

He dragged a hand down his face. Then again. Then let it fall, limp, into his lap.

“It’s not a big deal,” He muttered, “It happens. Has for years.”

You looked at him.

“I know,” You said quietly, “I get them too.”

He stilled.

His eyes flicked to you — surprised. Like he hadn’t expected that from you. Like he couldn’t quite picture it.

“Still doesn’t make it less shitty.” You added.

He let out a sound — half a breath, half a scoff. Not quite a laugh. But not nothing.

“I hate it,” He said, barely above a whisper, “I wake up and it’s like I’m still there. Like it never ended. The smoke, the screaming — I know it’s not real, but my body doesn’t. It reacts. It always reacts.”

He swallowed.

“It’s not even always the same dream. Sometimes it’s the castle. Sometimes it’s… worse. Places I don’t talk about. Places I’ve never told anyone about.”

His voice cracked at the end. You didn’t flinch.

You just curled your knees beneath you, watching your fingers.

“My first week here,” You said softly, “I didn’t sleep at all. I warded the apartment every night. Then I’d wake up at three in the morning and run to my parents’ house just to check their wards. I think I cast every protection charm in existence. I was so convinced… if I let my guard down, even for a second…”

You trailed off. The silence filled in the rest.

Mattheo stared at you. Not in judgment. Just… listening. Like he couldn’t believe someone else carried the same weight.

You — the girl from the Golden Quartet. The one who helped end it. Who came back. Who rebuilt.

But not unscathed.

He remembered what Bellatrix had done to you. What you’d endured. What you’d lost.

And he thought — maybe for the first time — that you’d suffered just as deeply. That you understood.

You glanced up at him again. He didn’t look away.

“Do you want me to set up a few wards?” You asked, “They won’t fix anything, but they help. And I can teach you how to maintain them. Though,” You added with a tired smile, “it’ll probably be harder for me to break in next time.”

That got the faintest twitch of his mouth.

Almost a smile. Almost.

Another long pause.

Then—

“…Just stay.”

The words were barely there. Soft. Uncertain.

But they were enough.

You nodded.

So you stayed.

The silence between you changed — not heavy anymore. Just quiet. Settling.

He leaned back against the cushions, body slowly unwinding, like his nervous system was finally catching up to the fact that he was safe. His eyes drifted halfway shut, breath finally starting to even out.

Eventually, his fingers brushed yours — faint, hesitant, barely even a touch.

You didn’t move.

And neither did he.

Mattheo had come down to check his mailbox like he always did on Saturday mornings—hood up, hair messy, hoodie zipped to his chin—when a voice stopped him mid-turn.

“Flat 2A, yeah?”

He looked up. There was a man squinting at the mailboxes, arms full of grocery bags, car keys dangling from his pinky. He looked vaguely familiar.

“…Yeah?” Mattheo said carefully.

The man nodded to the box beside his, “My daughter’s next door. Flat 2B.”

Mattheo straightened slightly, “Right. You must be Mr. (L/N).”

“You know her?”

“We went to school together,” Mattheo replied, keeping it vague in the safest way possible.

Mr. (L/N) gave him a long, assessing look—longer than was comfortable—then smiled, like he’d just figured something out.

“So you’re special. Like her.”

Mattheo froze, “…Sorry?”

“You know,” The man waved a hand loosely, “special. One of them. Don’t worry—I’ve known for years. Her mum cried when the letter came. I built her a wand stand once. Terrible thing. Lopsided.”

Mattheo blinked. Once. Twice.

Before he could plan an escape—

“Be a good lad,” Your father said cheerfully, already turning toward the exit, “and help me bring these upstairs. (Y/N)’s mum went overboard at the farmer’s market again. Wouldn’t be surprised if we had half of Surrey in the boot.”

“…What?”

“Come give us a hand, will you? These boxes aren’t gonna levitate themselves—ha! Kidding. Muggle joke. Don’t tell your lot I made it.”

Mattheo stood there, stunned, until your dad clapped him on the back like they were old mates, “You’ve got good arms. We’ll be done in no time.”

And then, without ceremony, your dad looped an arm through his and dragged him outside.

*

“So what do you do, son?” Your dad asked as they hauled bags back up the building stairs.

“Uh… I’m not really doing anything right now.”

“That’s what your twenties are for! Finding yourself. I worked two jobs at your age. One time, my mate Gary and I—ah, Gary, poor bastard, divorced now—anyway, we moved an entire washing machine up six flights with nothing but a strap and willpower.”

Mattheo, sweating slightly, nodded, “…Right.”

“Builds character.” Your dad said, with the authority of someone who’s definitely broken a toe doing that. Then, after a beat, “You know, life’s a lot like grocery shopping.”

Mattheo glanced down at the bag digging into his arm, “Is it.”

“You can make a list, plan every aisle, but there’s always something missing when you get home.”

“…Profound.”

“Exactly! You’re a good listener. Ever think about dating my daughter?”

Mattheo nearly dropped the watermelon.

“What?!”

“I’m just saying,” Your dad shrugged, utterly unbothered, “you’ve got kind eyes and steady hands. Plus you said you went to school together. Shared history’s a good foundation.”

You were halfway through folding laundry when the front door opened. You turned just in time to see your father stroll in, humming cheerfully—followed by Mattheo, who looked like he’d been inducted into a cult against his will.

You blinked, “What—? What is going on? Why is he here?”

“Hi.” Mattheo said, his voice flat with disbelief.

“He helped me carry the groceries,” Your dad said proudly, unloading bags onto the counter, “Nice boy. Good biceps.”

“…What?”

“Anyway,” Your dad continued, turning back to Mattheo, “You’re coming for dinner, obviously. I’ll ask her mum to make the lasagna. The lasagna. The one she makes when she likes someone.”

“That’s really not necessary.” Mattheo started, clearly panicked, but your dad was already on his phone. “She’ll be thrilled. You like cheese, don’t you?”

Mattheo looked at you helplessly. You just raised an eyebrow. “Well? Do you like cheese?”

“…I mean, yeah?”

“There you go.” Your dad clapped him on the back again, then started pushing jars toward him, “You should take some of these groceries, son. A growing boy needs nutrients.”

Your dad was saying, completely in earnest now as he sorted bags by category on your kitchen counter, “You eat enough protein? You look like you work out. What’s your egg intake?”

Mattheo opened his mouth, then shut it again. He glanced at you like please save me.

You looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide.

“Dad,” You said slowly, like approaching a landmine, “What is happening right now?”

“Nothing’s happening, sweetheart,” He said innocently, stacking apples with the precision of a man who’d definitely done this before, “Just making conversation. Mattheo here’s a lovely young man.”

“You’ve known him for twenty minutes.”

“And already I’ve seen enough. Polite, helpful, didn’t even grumble once when I handed him a forty-pound watermelon.”

Mattheo spoke up in a way that was far too timid for him, “I—kind of grumbled.”

“See?” Your dad grinned like he’d just won the lottery, “Humble, too. I want a son-in-law like that.”

“Dad!” You exclaimed, mortified.

Mattheo shifted awkwardly, cheeks flushed, feeling like he’d accidentally walked into a reality show.

“What? I’m not saying I want Mattheo to be my son-in-law, I’m saying I wouldn’t mind if I had a son-in-law like Mattheo. Two completely separate things, my dear.” Your dad said with mock innocence, flouncing around the room as he put away groceries, but kept two of everything right there on the counter instead of where they belonged.

“Now Mattheo, do you like red wine or white? I’ll make sure to have a bottle stocked for you when you come over.”

“Come over?” You echoed, cheeks heating up.

“Of course! He’s coming over for dinner tonight, are you not?”

Mattheo swallowed, clearly overwhelmed but trying to hide it behind a thin smile.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Mattheo said quickly, forcing a polite smile, “I was planning to meet my friends tonight.” A lie. A very hopeful lie.

Your dad didn’t miss a beat. “Then bring your friends as well! Oh, we’ll have a jolly good time—all these blokes under one roof. I’ll ask (Y/N)’s brother to bring a pack of beers, something to liven the old boys up.” He exclaimed, practically floating around the kitchen like a whirlwind of enthusiasm.

“Dad!” You finally exclaimed, trying to snap him out of his party-planning trance.

He stopped and turned, eyes twinkling as he looked at Mattheo’s uncomfortable face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” He said, voice suddenly gentle, “Do you not drink? Very good habit, you know.”

Mattheo swallowed, unsure how to respond.

“That’s okay,” Your dad went on, waving it off like it was no big deal, “My wife would much prefer a boy with good habits for our (Y/N), anyway.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, “Dad, please. Stop.”

Finally done messing about your kitchen, your dad began loading the pairs of items he’d left on the counter into one of the grocery boxes.

“There you go, son,” He said, handing the box to Mattheo with a warm, steady smile, “This should keep your fridge stocked for at least another week or two. If you don’t know what to do with any of it, just run down to my house. I’d be happy to whip up something for you to eat.”

Mattheo stared at the carton of food in his hands.

No one had ever offered him that before. Not like this. Not so openly, so simply, so… abundantly. His own father had been a distant shadow in his memories, a figure he’d learned to avoid rather than seek. There was no warmth, no easy kindness like this.

For a moment, something twisted quietly inside Mattheo — a mix of jealousy and something else, something heavier he didn’t quite want to name. You’d grown up with a dad who knew how to care, who showed it. He had thought once that having Muggle parents was the worst thing in the world, but now, holding that box, surrounded by your dad’s easy affection, he wasn’t so sure.

He looked up, meeting your dad’s hopeful gaze.

“Okay,” Mattheo said quietly, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I’ll come for dinner.”

Your dad’s grin widened, and you felt a little flutter in your chest as the moment settled between all of you—unexpected, but maybe exactly what was needed.

After what felt like hours of your dad chatting nonstop, finally, he was out the door, humming some old tune as he disappeared down the hallway. You shut the door behind him and let out a long breath, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

Turning to Mattheo, you ran a hand through your hair nervously. “I’m really sorry about him,” You said quickly, eyes darting away, “He can be... a lot. You don’t have to come for dinner, honestly. He was just being nice—he does that with pretty much everyone, like some sort of overly friendly hostage negotiator.”

Mattheo shifted his weight, his expression unreadable but somehow softer than usual. “I’m aware.” He said dryly, voice calm and measured, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You bit your lip, “Still, I don’t want you to feel like you have to. I know it’s kind of sudden and probably... weird.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and you caught a flicker in his eyes — something quieter, warmer, even if his face didn’t fully show it. “I don’t mind,” He said simply, voice low, “It’s… nice to be invited.”

You blinked, surprised, “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, but his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, “It’s rare. People don’t do that for me.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretches with unspoken things, and you realized that beneath all that aloofness, he wanted something like this. Something normal. Something warm.

You smiled gently, “Well, then. Dinner it is. And maybe next time you can teach my dad a thing or two about being subtle.”

Mattheo’s smirk finally turned into a half-smile, “Maybe.”

You felt your heart loosen just a bit, the awkwardness fading into something quieter, something real.

The hallway was still warm from dinner. You walked beside Mattheo, both of you quiet in that way people get after a full meal and too many emotions — like the silence itself had thickened into something gentle.

He had leftovers tucked under one arm, the lasagna carefully packed in a Tupperware with foil pressed down like your mum had sworn it would keep the flavour in, darling. He hadn’t said much since your dad’s final clap on the back and his booming, “Any friend of hers is a friend of mine, son!”

At his door, Mattheo hesitated, keys caught between his fingers.

You glanced at him.

He looked down at the container in his arms like it had grown heavier somehow, then back at you.

“…Your mum’s nice.”

You huffed a laugh, “Don’t get attached. She’s married to my dad.”

That pulled something from him — not one of those breathy, polite almost-laughs he gave people when they said something mildly amusing, but something real. Low and rough, surprised out of him like it had caught him off guard.

He shook his head, still smiling faintly, “Too bad.”

“She’s way out of your league, Riddle.” You replied easily.

“Speak for yourself — she’s the one who was trying to get me out of my pants.”

You choked, “Because she said you looked like you’d tripped over a kerb!”

“These,” He said, tugging lightly at the rip near his knee, “are meant to look like this.”

“There’s no harm in admitting you’re a bit clumsy, Matty.”

He let out a quiet snort, but still didn’t unlock the door. There was something tentative in the way he stood — like stepping inside would be an end to something soft he hadn’t realised he’d needed. Like he was holding on to the aftertaste of lasagna and warmth and your parents' terrible stories, trying to memorise what it felt like to belong.

The whole night, he hadn't felt like an outsider — not even like a guest. He’d just been there, part of the chaos. He’d argued with your brother over Quidditch stats, held up bits of your dad’s entertainment system while he hammered in the nails, and endured your mum fussing with the tear in his jeans. You’d realised halfway through that you could’ve used your wand to float the whole thing into place — but with Mattheo’s biceps straining against his sleeves, you’d decided to keep that to yourself.

Even now, you didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Finally, after a long pause, he shifted the Tupperware under one arm and turned the key, nudging the door open — but still not stepping through.

Then, like he hadn’t been debating it the entire walk up the stairs, he asked, casual as anything, “You wanna come in?”

You blinked, “Now?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly too aware of how the question had landed. “For a cuppa.” He added quickly. His voice cracked a little under the forced lightness.

You raised a brow, “Weren’t you just whining all the way up the stairs that you were too full to breathe?”

“It’s tea,” He said, trying for deadpan and failing miserably, “There’s always room for tea.”

You smiled softly, stepping past him into the familiar dimness of his flat, “I’d like that.”

He held the door a little longer to let you through — the smallest gesture, but deliberate. Inside, the flat smelled like warm laundry and whatever incense he’d been burning earlier — something herbal and clean that softened the edges of the silence.

You settled into the sofa, hands curled around a steaming mug. He passed you the sugar silently, like he already knew how you liked it.

“We have dinners like that every other week,” You said, voice low, relaxed, “You should come next time.”

Predictably, he started to refuse, “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t want to impose—”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His face had changed since the war. Thinner, maybe. Older in the eyes. But steadier, too. Calmer. There were fewer sharp edges — and maybe that was good. Maybe growing up had done what time always promises to do: carved the pain into shape.

Still, something tugged at your chest.

You both had grown up too fast. Lost too much, too young. Your rebellious teen years had disappeared the second you realised just how quickly your family could be taken from you. You’d watched people like Harry — and Mattheo — walk through fire alone, and you’d never forgotten it.

The war was brutal. There were nights when survival felt like a punishment, not a gift. But sometimes — like tonight — you caught a glimpse of who you’d become, and thought maybe it had made you into someone good.

You looked at Mattheo, still fiddling with the teabag in his mug like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, and wondered if he felt the same about himself.

He had been impulsive, emotional, too quick to lash out. And now? Now he was quieter. Softer around the edges. But part of you missed the fire in him — the cocky confidence, the recklessness. The way he used to speak like the whole world should listen.

You came out of the war a hero.

He came out as the son of the world’s greatest villain.

You had a family who loved you. Who accepted your world and stitched it into their own.

He had parents who only cared how he could serve theirs.

And despite everything — despite the fact that you were perhaps one of the only people alive who truly understood — you hadn’t lived equal lives. You had a family that loved you unconditionally. He had… expectations. Burdens.

“You wouldn’t be,” You said quietly, “My parents would really like it if you came again. And so would I.”

Mattheo’s stirring stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just let the silence stretch — until it snapped.

“You don’t need to keep doing this, you know,” He said, voice tight, “I don’t know what you’re scared of, but I’m not going to off myself or host secret Death Eater meetings or whatever it is you think I’m doing alone up here.”

You blinked, caught off guard, “Mattheo—”

“Come on,” He said, rolling his eyes. “You keep checking in. Keep inviting me places. You think I don’t notice?”

You stared at him. And then, to his horror, you started to laugh. Soft and exasperated.

“Oh Godric. I wonder why I keep visiting my super attractive neighbour who’s been through the same traumas I have, who my parents clearly like and who actually laughs at my jokes. Truly a mystery.”

He froze, like you’d hit him with a hex, “Wait — you’re not saying you keep coming around because… because you like me?”

You blinked, smiling slowly, “Why? Can’t I?”

“You can’t,” He said immediately. Adamantly. Like it was law. “You should be with someone like Potter. Or Granger. Or — Merlin, even Weasley.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Harry’s basically my brother. Hermione’s dating Ron.”

“There’s more than one Weasley.” He offered, grasping at straws.

"Mattheo frankly I cannot think of anything worse than ending up related to Ron, Hermione and Harry."

Mattheo shrugged with faux innocence, swirling the teabag in his mug like he hadn’t just tried to sell you off to a different wizarding family, “I’m just saying… you could do better.”

You rolled your eyes, “Right. And what exactly would ‘better’ look like?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You leaned forward, eyes glinting, “Go on. Tell me.”

Mattheo hesitated — the cocky response clearly right there on the tip of his tongue — but something in your expression stopped him short. Maybe it was the way you weren’t teasing anymore. Not really. You were waiting. Listening.

And when he spoke, his voice was low. Stripped bare.

“Someone like you. Someone who didn’t spend most of their life calling people like you a Mudblood,” He muttered, eyes fixed on the steam curling from his mug, “Someone who doesn’t make people reach for their wands the second they walk into a room.”

Your smile faded.

He didn’t look up, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I was. You know what I’ve done. I picked sides. I picked wrong.”

There was a long, quiet beat. The kind that carries too much weight.

Then you set your mug down gently on the table and said, “You were just a child, Mattheo.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, uncertain. Wary. Like he wanted to believe you, but didn’t dare.

“A child,” You repeated, firmer this time, “And your father was bloody Voldemort. Of course you were twisted up inside. Of course you were scared. But you’re not that kid anymore.”

“But you—” He started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” You said softly, “I’m not some symbol of bravery or some war hero people should look up to. I left the wizarding world precisely because of that. I didn’t want to be paraded around, painted in gold, turned into a symbol of light just because I happened to survive.”

He swallowed hard. His brows were drawn tight.

“There were so many people caught in that war,” You continued, voice trembling now, “People who didn’t get to pick sides. People like you, who had to follow the only path left open to them.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He looked away again, that familiar wall sliding into place — too fast, too familiar.

“Doesn’t change what I did,” He said, “Doesn’t mean I don’t deserve everything I get now.”

“You don’t,” You snapped, not angry at him — but at the world that had taught him to think like this, “And neither do they. Harry wouldn’t have survived if Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t lied to Voldemort, and now she’s rotting in Azkaban. Theo deflected a curse meant for McGonagall and he’s being shunned like a criminal. And me—”

You paused, eyes suddenly wet, voice quieter.

“I would’ve died that night in the manor,” You whispered, “if you hadn’t lied to Bellatrix.”

He flinched.

You stepped toward him, hands reaching up, gently cupping his cheeks. Forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Don’t you dare pretend like it didn’t matter,” You said, “I know what you’ve done. I know who you are.”

You swallowed, “The second you had the chance to choose, Mattheo, you chose right.”

Then you added, barely above a whisper, “And that’s why I like you.”

“Because I saved your life?”

You shook your head.

“No,” You breathed, “Because you’re not who they said you were. Because you’re a good man. Whether you believe it or not.”

Mattheo looked at you like he didn’t know whether to shatter or kiss you.

You cleared your throat, tried to pull yourself together. Tried not to let your voice break completely, “So… are you coming to dinner next week?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Really looked. Like the pieces of his past were still rearranging themselves in his mind — and for the first time, they weren’t sharp enough to cut.

“I want you there,” You said, softer now, “They do too. But mostly… I do.”

That undid something in him.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed. The tension in his jaw eased. His eyes dropped for a second, and then met yours again.

And when he nodded — small, certain — it felt like something cracked open between you. Not in a way that broke, but in a way that finally let the light in.

“I’ll come.” He said.

You smiled and reached for his shirt, smoothing out imaginary creases as your fingers lingered just a second longer than they needed to.

“Good.” You murmured.

He caught your hand gently in his, eyes searching yours.

And for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like someone clawing his way out of the darkness.

He felt seen. He felt chosen.

And maybe — just maybe — he was starting to believe he deserved that too.

Mattheo did come for dinner.

And then he came again. And again after that.

It wasn’t like you suddenly fell into each other’s arms or kissed under the kitchen light while your mum offered dessert. But something shifted — subtle, steady. Like a hinge finally oiled. Like the space between you both had always been there, and now you were finally choosing to fill it.

There were still jokes, still the sarcasm and dry glances and moments where he pretended not to be listening even though he definitely was. But the edges were softer. The glances lingered longer. The silences stopped feeling like things to be filled, and more like things to be shared.

You saw it in the way he sat closer to you now. The way his shoulder would brush yours and stay there. The way his laugh sounded warmer in your presence. The way he always saved you the last spoonful of something without having to be asked.

You hadn’t defined anything. But you were definitely getting closer.

Which is how, a few weeks later, you found yourself sprinting into his flat like you owned the place — because, well, you sort of had started to.

“Matty!” You called out breathlessly, not even glancing at the figure lounging on the sofa, “I need to borrow your leather jacket—where is it? Don’t say it’s in the laundry, I swear to Merlin—”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You kicked off your shoes, breezed past the living room, and charged straight for his bedroom, shouting, “Thanks, by the way! You’re the best!”

Already halfway through the hallway, you threw a hand up in vague acknowledgment and barrelled through the door.

Stopped dead in your tracks.

There he was.

Mattheo.

Fresh from the shower. Shirtless. Damp curls sticking to his forehead. A towel slung low on his hips. Drops of water still trailing down his chest, slow and traitorous.

You made a noise that might’ve been a word. Or a gasp. Or a whimper.

He blinked, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting company, holding a shirt in one hand like he’d frozen mid-movement.

“…Hi.” He said, entirely too casual for someone who was 90% naked.

You let out a squeak — an actual squeak — slapped a hand over your eyes, and spun around so fast you almost collided with the doorframe.

“Oh my Godric, I’m so sorry—I thought you were on the couch, you were on the couch two seconds ago, I swear, I just— I didn’t see anything—well, okay, I did, but I didn’t mean to—”

You opened the door.

Slammed it shut again.

Then leaned against it, face flaming, pulse racing.

And from the living room came a voice that was not Mattheo’s:

“Hi.”

You blinked. Turned slowly.

And there, entirely not naked, spoon in mouth and legs still kicked up on the sofa, was Theodore Nott — looking very amused.

He raised the spoon lazily, “Hey. You alright there?”

You blinked at him, brain rebooting, “Nott?”

“In the flesh,” He said, raising a spoon in salute, “Should I be offended you ran past me like I was invisible?”

“I—” You blinked, face aflame, “I thought you were Mattheo.”

“I gathered.” He went back to his cereal.

“I just needed to borrow his jacket!” You said quickly, heat still burning in your cheeks, “Maybe take outfit photos in his mirror.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, “You don’t have your own mirror?”

“My mirror has an antique bronze frame,” You replied flatly, “It doesn’t match the vibe.”

“Right,” He said, utterly unconvinced, returning to his cereal, “Didn’t realize you two were that close.”

You stilled.

You swallowed. How were you supposed to respond to that? Yes, you were close to Mattheo. Close enough to know just how he likes his tea. Close enough to keep biscuits in his cupboard that were only for you. But you'd never said anything out loud. There were no labels. No claims.

It would be kind of humiliating to say something only for Mattheo to come strolling out and be like, “Nah, she just lingers here like a stray cat I accidentally fed once.”

Before you could decide what to say, the bedroom door opened.

Mattheo stepped out, now mercifully dressed in faded black jeans and a plain white T-shirt — though you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse. He had your favourite leather jacket of his slung casually over one arm, and his damp curls clung to his forehead in soft, lazy waves. You were suddenly very grateful he'd decided to wear the jacket… if only so Theo wouldn’t catch you blatantly ogling his best mate’s biceps.

Mattheo just grinned and sauntered over, totally unbothered, and shook the jacket out with a single practiced flick before holding it open for you.

You slid your arms into the sleeves as he held it up, the worn leather warm and familiar, smelling faintly like his cologne — and maybe a little like that soap you'd seen in his shower that was inexplicably labelled dragon ash and sandalwood.

He adjusted the collar gently, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck for a beat longer than necessary, “Looks better on you anyway.”

You glanced up at him, and his eyes met yours — something unspoken passing between you, soft and real. Then, all at once, he stepped back, cleared his throat, and looked toward Theo.

Theo’s smile widened like a cat who’d found something much more interesting than his cereal. “So, just to clarify… what is this, then?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you, “Because if this isn’t dating, it’s the most suspiciously couple-y non-dating situation I’ve ever seen.”

Mattheo didn’t even hesitate, “It’s none of your business.”

“Ohhh,” Theo said, leaning back, “Which means yes.”

You flushed. Mattheo sighed like this was a discussion he’d already prepared for in his head and hated every second of.

Then, with the most casual tone imaginable, he said to you, “I’m heading out with the guys later. Might be home late.”

You nodded, adjusting the sleeves of the jacket, "Alright. Have fun. Stay safe."

He looked you over, your outfit clearly indicating that you were going out with your friends, "You too. Send me a Patronus when you get home."

You hummed, giving him a small smile, "I know the drill."

Theo raised a brow, “Right, definitely not dating.”

Mattheo gave him a lazy middle finger but didn't deny it and turned back to you, his tone softening just a touch, “You staying for a bit?”

“I just needed the jacket,” You said, trying not to smile, "My Uber's gonna be here any second."

"Right," He responded, raking his eyes over your figure, choosing to tuck your hair behind your ear, "Then I guess I'll see you later."

"I guess you will." You chuckled, before turning to his friend who was watching you both like it was his favourite show. Not that he would even know what a television was, "It was nice seeing you again, Theo. Let's have a drink one day and catch up."

He nodded, giving you a smirk that didn't drop until you had exited and he slid his eyes back to Mattheo, “So when’s the wedding?”

The pub was alive with the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional shout from the dartboard. Mattheo sat at the far end of the worn wooden table, surrounded by Draco, Theo, Enzo, and Blaise. Pints and half-empty bottles were scattered across the table like trophies from battles fought and survived.

“Mate,” Draco nudged him with an elbow, voice tinged with mock disbelief, “Why aren’t you drinking us under the table tonight? You usually drown whatever’s bothering you.”

Mattheo glanced at his nearly untouched glass of cider, fingers tapping restlessly on the rim. “Not in the mood.” He muttered, eyes flickering toward the window, where the night had deepened and the streetlights cast pools of gold on the pavement.

“Not like you,” Blaise teased, “Usually, you’d be three sheets to the wind by now.”

Enzo smirked, “Yeah, what gives? You okay, Riddle?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked toward the door, then the window, and back to the table, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the wood. He looked… distracted.

Theo, sitting next to Mattheo with a mischievous grin, leaned in, “Oh, it’s because our dear friend here is waiting on a Patronus.”

The others blinked. “Patronus?” Enzo repeated.

Theo nodded, barely able to keep a straight face, “Yes from his cute little neighbour. She’s supposed to send it when she gets home safe after a night out. Mattheo’s been scanning the streets like a bloodhound all evening.”

Theo leaned back with a sly grin, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “And the neighbour in question? Well, you’re all gonna love this—it's (L/N).”

Blaise nearly choked on his drink, “You’re joking.”

"In a classic tale of Romeo and Juliet, our dear Matty boy has found himself in love with the girl who literally killed his father."

"I'm not in love." Mattheo snapped but a car drove past, shining a light that looked too similar to a patronus and had his neck almost snapping in two in his effort to get a better look.

Enzo burst into laughter, "Oh, yeah, you're not in love, you absolute boob."

The knocking started faintly — not loud, but urgent. Sharp, clipped taps that cut through your dreams like a blade. You jolted upright, breath caught in your throat, blinking through the dark, tangled in your sheets like you’d been mid-battle instead of mid-dream.

It wasn’t that loud — but something in the rhythm of it pulled you from sleep like a hook behind the ribs.

You squinted at the clock. 03:17.

Groaning softly, you threw off the covers, feet hitting cold floorboards with a quiet thud. You reached for your wand automatically, the weight of it familiar in your palm, even as sleep still clung to you like cobwebs. The knocking came again — quicker now, more urgent.

You padded toward the front door, pulse starting to rise.

When you opened it — just a crack, just enough to see — the cold slammed into you. But it was nothing compared to what you saw standing there.

Theo Nott.

He looked like he’d run across London.

Hair wind-tossed. Chest heaving. Coat half-unbuttoned. His skin was pale, almost grey in the porchlight, and there was something feral in his eyes — panic, fury, fear, all twisted up into one tight, burning thread.

You stared, “Theo?”

His breath puffed in a sharp cloud, “It’s Mattheo.”

Your stomach dropped.

The door was open in seconds, and you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside before the words had even fully registered. It slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

“What happened?” You demanded, voice cracking now, “Is he hurt? Where is he?”

Theo didn’t answer immediately. He was pacing your living room like a caged thing, one hand knotted in his hair, the other clenched into a fist at his side.

“They arrested him.”

The air in the room turned cold.

Your voice came out as barely a whisper, “What?”

“Tonight. At the pub. We were all there — Blaise, Draco, Enzo. Just drinking. Laughing. Nothing serious. And then out of nowhere, the Aurors show up. Said there’d been reports. Wouldn’t say of what. Wouldn’t explain. They just—” His jaw tightened, “They just dragged him out.”

You stared, heart pounding, “For what?”

“Suspicion. Loitering. Someone said he ‘fit the description’ of a man acting odd in Knockturn Alley earlier that day — even though we’d been nowhere near there. One of the Aurors looked him dead in the face and said, ‘You know who you are.’ Like that was all the proof they needed.”

You sat down hard on the arm of your couch, breath punched from your lungs.

“He’s done nothing,” You said, “He hasn’t done anything—”

“They don’t care,” Theo snapped, suddenly furious again, “They see the name. They see the face. The bloody Mark. They don’t ask questions. They just act like he’s a ticking time bomb and they’re doing everyone a favour by locking him up before he explodes.”

You buried your face in your hands for a second, trying to breathe — trying to think, “Where is he now?”

“Ministry holding,” Theo said darkly, “They said they’ll process him in the morning. Until then, he’s ‘detained for questioning.’ Which we both know means they’ll keep him in a concrete cell all night and try to wear him down before anyone gets to him.”

You stood up suddenly, fury vibrating through your body.

Theo paused mid-pace to look at you.

“I know we’re not close,” He said, awkward again, “but I know you’re close to him. Closer than he lets on. And you—” He hesitated, “You’re friends with Potter. You’ve got… pull. People listen to you. I didn’t know who else to go to.”

But you were already pulling a jumper over your head, wand clenched in a white-knuckled grip. You barely heard him over the roar of your own blood in your ears.

“I’ll handle it,” You said, your voice low and shaking with rage, “But I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Go to him. Now. Stay with him. Don’t let them bully him. Don’t let him say anything to anyone without a lawyer present. No comment. No statements. Not even what his bloody name is. Got it?”

Theo nodded, grim, “Got it.”

You followed him, stepping into your boots, wand ready. You didn’t feel sleepy anymore. You didn’t feel anything but hot, burning, righteous fury.

Because Mattheo had spent years trying to claw his way out of the shadow of his past. Years trying to prove that he wasn’t like him. That he wasn’t like them.

And now they’d dragged him back in — without a charge, without a reason, without a second thought.

This was why you left the wizarding world. Why you’d turned your back on the Ministry and its post-war morality circus. You’d fought in the war, bled in it, lost friends in it — and still they hadn’t learned.

Still they saw people like Mattheo Riddle as enemies, not survivors. Not victims of the same fear and violence that had nearly destroyed them all.

At the end of the day, the truth didn’t matter. Not as long as they were able to cram you painfully into whatever predisposed ideas they had.

The two of you raised your wands.

And in two cracks of displaced air, you were gone — vanishing into the night.

Both headed to two separate locations.

You were about to officially return to the wizarding world. And rain hell upon them. You were going to make them listen. You were going to make them pay.

The Ministry’s grand chamber felt colder than usual — or maybe it was just the weight of what was about to happen. Mattheo stood quietly beside you, hands clenched at his sides, eyes sharp but guarded. Harry, Ron, and Hermione flanked you, each radiating the same burning frustration.

You moved through the Ministry of Magic’s atrium like a hurricane. Paper memos paused mid-flight. Aurors stepped aside. One man even dropped his coffee.

Security tried to stop you at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s doors.

They did not succeed.

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” You snapped, wand already glowing, “And I will.”

You shoved open the office doors of Minister Fudge so hard they banged against the walls. His aides leapt to their feet, startled. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t blink. Your eyes were locked on the man behind the desk — Cornelius Fudge, still wearing that smug little bowler hat, like he hadn’t spent the last decade proving he cared more about saving face than saving lives.

Fudge barely looked up, “Ah, the prodigal warriors return.”

You didn’t flinch. “Where is he?” You demanded, voice low but fierce, “Where is Mattheo Riddle?”

Fudge blinked, slightly surprised by your fury. Of course he wasn’t aware of just how close you both were — you could only assume he believed Mattheo wouldn’t be missed, or that those who did care about him wouldn’t have the power to do anything about it.

“He’s in custody. Being held for questioning. Suspicion of—”

Harry cut in, voice thick with disgust, “Suspicion of what, exactly? Because I saw the arrest report — and there’s absolutely nothing of value there.”

Hermione stepped forward, eyes blazing, “You hold a man without charge because of his name and history? That’s not justice — it’s persecution.”

Fudge arched a brow, calm, as you began to tremble with rage, “He’s being held for questioning. Surely even you understand the need for caution, considering his—”

“He defected,” Ron snapped, “He fought with us. He was on our side at the end of the war.”

“And how exactly would you know that?” Fudge folded his hands neatly, "You refused to give your account to the ministry after the war. Refused to cooperate with us."

You stared at him, disbelief rising like bile, “I fought in the war. I didn’t sit like a right old fart in an office and send children to do my job for me.”

That struck. His expression flickered. But he recovered quickly.

“You have no proof,” He said, “No statements. No witnesses. Nothing documented. Nothing official. Just your word, I suppose?”

Your jaw clenched.

And then, the heavy oak doors creaked open again behind you.

The final recipient of your frantic Patronus had arrived.

“I would hardly call my word ‘unofficial’.” Came a cool, clipped voice.

Every head turned.

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall stepped into the room like she owned it. Her tartan robes swirled around her ankles, her bun was tight, and her wand was already out — not drawn, just held. Like a promise.

“Headmistress.” Fudge said tightly.

“I am here,” She said, “because you are about to repeat the mistakes of your past. And I, for one, will not stand by and let it happen again.”

She turned to you with a brief, firm nod. Then addressed the room.

“Mattheo Riddle was present at the Battle of Hogwarts. He cast no Unforgivables. He struck down more Death Eaters than many fully trained Aurors. He aided in the evacuation of the Astronomy Tower. I can attest to this. I witnessed it myself.”

Fudge scoffed, “If you want to make a case, you need to conduct a hearing. Present evidence. Until then, Riddle remains in custody. This isn’t the proper procedure.”

“You’re right,” Hermione snapped, “Which is why you’ll release Mattheo now and arrange a hearing immediately — not weeks from now, not months. Until then, he walks free.”

You stepped forward, voice like steel, “I have a reporter from every major wizarding outlet standing outside this building. Do you know how long they’ve waited to see me after I disappeared for years? How eager they are for their long-awaited interview with all four of us?”

Fudge paled slightly.

“I can see the headlines now,” You said, voice dripping with venom, “Fudge Fudged Up. Yet again.”

Harry’s eyes were burning, “You think they’ll defend you after seeing how you handled Sirius Black? You locked him up on false charges. How many more lives are you willing to ruin?”

“I will make sure you never make another decision without the press crawling down your throat and breathing down your neck — second-guessing everything you say. Because if you think I won’t drag your entire office into the dirt for this, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Thick with tension. Even Harry looked vaguely stunned.

Fudge’s face had gone bone white, his knuckles gripping the edge of the desk.

“Very well,” He said finally, “Release him. No charges. Effective immediately.”

Headmistress McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Thank you, Minister.” She said, her tone measured but unmistakably pointed.

You didn’t hold back.

Without missing a beat, you shot over your shoulder, loud enough for Fudge to hear clearly, “I’m not thanking you for shit. Go fuck yourself.”

“A displeasure as always, Cornelius,” Ron added as he turned to leave, “Make sure to get off that fat arse every once in a while and do some actual work. Can’t let the children have all the fun.”

You didn’t look back.

None of you did.

But the echo of your words — and your fury — lingered in the halls long after you’d gone.

The iron doors of the holding chamber creaked open with a groan, and Mattheo stepped into the atrium — free at last.

The Ministry’s harsh lighting did nothing to dull the exhaustion written across his face or the tension that lingered in his shoulders. His shirt was rumpled, his hair a mess from running his hands through it one too many times. Flanked by Blaise, Theo, Draco, and Enzo — all equally sleep-deprived and stone-faced — he looked like a man still caught somewhere between disbelief and survival.

But the second he saw you sprinting across the floor toward him, something in his expression cracked wide open. The weight dropped from his shoulders.

He didn’t even get a breath in before you launched forward.

“Mattheo!”

His head snapped up just in time to catch you as you practically threw yourself into his arms. His hands rose on instinct, gripping your waist, steadying you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You pulled back just enough to grab his face, scanning every inch like you had to see for yourself that he was okay, “Are you alright? Did they hurt you? Did they—?”

“I’m okay,” He murmured, voice low and raw, eyes locked on yours, “You came for me.”

“Of course I did.” You whispered, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Behind you, Harry, Hermione, and Ron caught up at a far more leisurely pace. They stopped a few paces back, watching you with fond, amused expressions.

“She’s gone." Ron muttered, shaking his head fondly.

“Precisely,” Hermione said, lips twitching, “I haven’t seen her this taken with someone since your brother Bill visited in second year.”

Ron recoiled, “Why would you remind me of that?”

Hermione laughed.

Harry just smiled, arms crossed, “Good for her.”

Across the way, Blaise, Enzo, and Draco were watching the reunion unfold with similarly raised eyebrows and smirking mouths.

“Is it just me,” Enzo said, “or does that look a little more intense than casual neighbours?”

Draco arched a brow, “Considering she just threw herself into his arms? I’d say yeah.”

Theo didn’t even bother hiding his grin, “Told you.”

As pleasantries began to pass between the groups — polite nods, cautious glances, a few lingering tensions quickly diffused by Ron and Blaise’s sarcastic commentary — you and Mattheo found yourselves standing with Headmistress McGonagall, who approached with her usual purposeful stride.

She looked at Mattheo first, and while her expression was sharp as ever, her eyes were kind. “Mr. Riddle,” She said crisply, “What happened to you was shameful. Unacceptable. And not the kind of justice we fought for.”

Mattheo shifted slightly, unsure how to respond.

But McGonagall continued, voice dry, “And I must say… when your Patronus came hurtling into my chambers at three o’clock this morning, I was more than a little surprised. I haven’t seen her beg for anything since third year, when Peeves nicked her entire potions essay.”

You flushed, brushing a hand over your face, “It wasn’t begging.”

Mattheo turned to you, gaze soft and unreadable — something between gratitude, guilt, and something else deeper. Warmer.

“I was worried about him.” You admitted timidly.

McGonagall’s brow rose, “So it would seem.”

You let out a small laugh, breath finally loosening in your chest. Mattheo’s ears turned pink, and you didn’t miss the way he relaxed the longer you stood close.

The headmistress tilted her head slightly, “Truthfully, I hadn’t expected to hear from you again. Especially after how soundly you ignored my last offer.”

Mattheo blinked, “Offer?”

“She was offered the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” McGonagall said, turning to him, “At the time, I thought she’d be a good fit. Now I’m convinced she’s the best one.”

You hesitated, just like you always did.

But Mattheo didn’t give you the chance to fall silent again.

“You should take it,” He said, firm and certain, “Your grades were the best in our year. You literally teach now — and you’re brilliant at it. You’d make a great professor, (Y/N). Hogwarts would be lucky to have you.”

You blinked at him, startled, “You think?”

He nodded, voice softening, “I know.”

McGonagall watched the exchange with something suspiciously close to amusement, “Wise words, Mr. Riddle. You’d do well to listen to your boyfriend, Ms. (L/N).”

You both flushed scarlet.

But you couldn’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed.

Because for the first time in a long, long while — standing there, surrounded by the people who knew your heart and the boy who held it — everything felt right.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to come home.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to accept.” You said at last, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Mattheo leaned toward you — and before you could turn away, his hand slid into yours. Not in a dramatic way. Not like he was making a scene. Just… quiet and sure. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles, grounding you.

You looked over at him — and the smile he gave you in return made something in your chest flip.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

You turned back to McGonagall, looking at your future boss with a smirk, “Drinks? To celebrate?”

McGonagall gave a long-suffering sigh — but her eyes sparkled, “I suppose one will do, for good will.”

Ron chimed in, already slinging an arm around Theo’s shoulders, “I say we make it a proper celebration. We’ve earned it.”

Hermione arched a brow, “Only you would be up for getting hammered at ten in the morning.”

Draco shared a look with Harry — who gave a subtle shrug, like, he’s got a point — and Blaise was already pulling out his wand to start listing nearby pubs.

You laughed — light and easy now — like the worst of it had passed, like something had finally cracked open in the best possible way.

Mattheo squeezed your hand again, just once.

And this time, you squeezed back.

The apartment building was quiet when you both got back.

The night had blurred into something golden — laughter echoing down cobblestone streets, half-empty pint glasses clinking on wooden tables, Theo and Harry nearly arm-wrestling over who paid the tab (they both lost), and McGonagall giving one tight-lipped smile before declaring she’d “had quite enough of rowdy children for one night” and Disapparating with a dramatic crack.

You were still smiling when you reached Mattheo's door, still glowing from the rush of everything.

Mattheo put his key into the lock—and then paused.

You turned to him, the adrenaline finally ebbing now that it was just the two of you, your pulse still not entirely steady — not after the last twenty-four hours, not after everything that had just happened.

You studied him in the dim light of the hallway. The bruised shadows under his eyes. The tight line of his jaw. The way he was looking at you — like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out how.

There had been something building there, thick in the air between you. Something humid and suffocating since the moment you entered the bar. A part of you had wanted to leave, the lack of sleep beginning to weigh down on your limbs, but then you saw Lorenzo and Hermione clink their glasses in quiet solidarity — and you stayed. You leaned against Mattheo, your head on his shoulder, lulled by the quiet of the nearly empty pub, the alcohol making you soft and sleepy.

Mattheo turned to you, “Do you want to come in?”

You chuckled, “For a cuppa?”

He gave you a half smile, “Not this time.”

You let him lead you inside. Let him shut the door behind you and crowd you gently against it, looking at you with half-lidded eyes and a reverence that stole the breath from your lungs.

God, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to mold your mouth to his, press your body against his, and lose yourself in the gravity of him.

“Thank you,” He said finally, voice low, nose a hair away from yours, “For today. For yesterday. For everything.”

You raised your eyes to his, still pressed between him and the door, trying to swallow the want pooling at the back of your throat like syrup, “It’s what you do for people you care about.”

He looked at you like you’d just said something sacred.

And then, softly — like the words hurt on the way out, “Do you?”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” You whispered, “I do.”

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you, long and quiet — like he was memorizing the moment. Like he was waiting for something to shift.

You reached up and pressed your hand to his chest, fingers spread over the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Do you?”

His hand came up slowly, curling around yours, “I’ve been trying not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to have something good.” He dipped his head, eyes flicking to your lips, “But then you showed up. And now I don’t want anything else. I’ll do whatever I have to do to deserve you.”

You cupped his cheeks, brushing your thumbs gently over his cheekbones. “Come here.” You whispered.

And then you kissed him.

No fanfare. No fireworks. Just you and him — pressed together under the soft glow of the hallway light. Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, wrapping around his neck as you tilted your head, standing on your toes and pressing your body flush to his.

Mattheo kissed you back with quiet desperation, brows furrowed like he was feeling too much at once, like kissing you was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. His hands cupped your face like he didn’t trust the world not to take you from him.

And you kissed him like you were trying to make up for every moment he thought he was unloved.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and tangled in each other, he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, softly:

"My dad is going to be thrilled."

Mattheo laughed against your mouth, "I can't say he's going to be too thrilled about what I'm about to do to his only daughter."

You shook your head, laughing — but you didn’t stop him. Not when he kissed you again, not when his hands found your waist, not when on this night, he finally, finally, became yours.

Bonus:

It hadn’t been that long since you walked these halls as a student. The scent of old stone and parchment still felt like home, and the echo of your laughter in the stairwells was barely faded.

Which is why it felt a little surreal, standing at the front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom — your classroom now — watching twenty tired students blink at you, half-asleep, post-midterms.

You remembered this feeling too well. The post-exam lull. The I’d-rather-be-anywhere-but-in-class energy that leaked into the air like a sleeping draught.

So you did what any responsible professor would do.

Time for a little... intervention.

"Alright," You said, clapping your hands once, “Seeing as the lot of you look one Muffliato away from a nap, I brought a guest to help with today’s demonstration.”

The classroom door creaked open at just the right moment.

Boots echoed on stone. A shadow fell across the threshold.

And then in walked Mattheo Riddle — Auror robes fitted and dark, wand holstered, smug expression firmly in place.

The class lit up like you’d cast Lumos Maxima.

Half the class gasped.

The girls — no, scratch that, several students of all genders — squealed.

You actually had to bite back a laugh.

It was like déjà vu. For a moment, you were thirteen again, sitting in this very classroom, watching your friends clutch their chests over Gilderoy Lockhart like he was the second coming of Merlin.

Except now Lockhart was replaced by your fiancé. And your fiancé actually could duel.

You ignored the whispers, fighting a smile as Mattheo strolled in like he owned the castle. You could tell he was enjoying every second of the attention.

"Morning, class," Mattheo said with a smirk, scanning the room like he already knew the effect he had. His eyes finally landed on you, "Hope you're ready to learn something useful for once."

You rolled your eyes, "Don’t get cocky, Riddle.”

The students were wide-eyed now, completely awake, some whispering furiously. You let the tension build, then smiled sweetly.

You turned back to the class. “Since most of you seem to have forgotten how to hold a wand upright this week, Auror Riddle and I will be demonstrating live defensive magic.” You paused, “Via duel.”

The room exploded.

“You’re gonna duel him?!”

“IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?”

“Mister Riddle, PLEASE go easy on her—”

“She’s gonna mop the floor with him, are you kidding?!”

Mattheo tilted his head toward you, amused, "Your students seem confident in your skills. I’d hate to disappoint them when I win."

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him, "I hope you can still keep your job once I humiliate you, darling."

“Oh, it’s like that?” He asked, stepping onto the platform. His wand slid into his hand like it belonged there, “Want to make it interesting, sweetheart?”

"I'm listening."

His grin was wicked, “If I win, we move the wedding up. This winter.”

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second.

A chorus of gasps filled the room.

You raised a brow, “That’s all? I was expecting something scandalous.”

“Scandalous comes after,” He said, low enough only you could hear. Then louder: “Well, Professor, do we have a deal?”

You tipped your head, “Deal.”

The class whooped as you took your stance. Wands raised. Eyes locked.

It started playful — spells exchanged like inside jokes, your shields strong, your counters cheeky. You danced around each other, laughing, bickering like you always did.

“Getting slow in your old age.” You taunted.

“Still fast enough to catch you, sweetheart.” He replied, flicking your spell back with a grin.

You both fell into rhythm effortlessly, spells flying and deflecting with heat and precision. It was like dancing — a dance only the two of you knew the steps to. You hit him with a Flipendo that nearly knocked him on his ass; he responded with a Petrificus Partialis that froze your wand arm mid-jinx.

You countered just in time to send his disarming spell into the ceiling, and he laughed again, breathless, “Merlin, I forgot how annoying you are when you’re winning.”

"You're saying that as if I'm not always winning." You said, already flicking your wand again.

The class was on the edge of their seats. Screaming. Chanting. Cheering for both of you like it was the final match of the Triwizard Tournament.

But then — a flash of motion. A student near the edge tripped on their bag, almost falling off the bench. You turned instantly, wand snapping to cast a cushion charm.

And that was when Mattheo’s spell struck.

Not hard — a harmless stunner meant for flair — but it knocked you slightly off-balance.

The platform dimmed. The match was technically over.

Mattheo, smug as anything, raised his hands as he descended from the platform, walking toward you. “Victory,” He called, lowering his wand with a bow so smug you nearly hexed him right there, “Riddle for the win.”

You glared at him, but still let him wrap his arms around your waist as he lifted you down from the platform — an action that did not go unnoticed by your students, who began to squeal.

“I was distracted. I had you cornered until the end.”

“Still counts,” He said, grinning as he stepped closer, “Should’ve kept your eyes on the target, love.”

You narrowed your eyes, then tilted your head in thought. Loud enough for the class to hear, you said:

“Say I won, and I’ll marry you this weekend.”

The entire class collectively gasped.

“PROFESSOR—”

“WAIT THAT’S NOT FAIR—”

“THAT’S CHEATING!!”

“YOU CAN’T BRIBE HIM INTO LOSING—”

Mattheo laughed so hard he had to put a hand on the desk to steady himself, “You heard them, love. It’s not fair.”

You gave a little shrug, completely unbothered, “Life’s not fair.”

He stepped closer, wand twirling between his fingers, “So what you’re saying is... you’re too proud to admit you lost."

You smiled sweetly, “No. I’m saying you’re going to say I won. And I’ll be in white by Saturday.”

The class exploded.

“OH MY GOD THEY’RE ACTUALLY DOING IT—”

“WE’RE GOING TO A WEDDING???”

“I’M CRYING—”

"I’ll be Mrs. Riddle this time next week," You sang, "Going once, going twice—"

“The greatest duelist of all time,” Mattheo declared, loud enough for everyone to hear, “will be my wife by this time next week.”

The class lost it.

Cheers, whistles, someone even threw a quill in the air like confetti. You rolled your eyes, cheeks warm, and Mattheo just smirked, slipping his hand into yours as you both walked out past the chaos.

“Can’t wait to marry me, huh?” You teased, straightening out his robes, choosing not to kiss him — not with your audience so keenly watching.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips near your ear, “You kidding? I've been ready since the day you introduced me to that shitty Australian dingo."

You laughed softly.

Somewhere behind you, a student whispered, "Is he talking about Bluey?

Forever Taglist:

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Lorenzo Berkshire had a plan. After years of pathetically pining after his best friend, Lorenzo, at the insistence of the nosy twats he called friends, decided to finally do something about it once and for all. 

Step one: Purchase tickets to the Wicked Sisters concert.

Step two: Ask you to accompany him to said concert.

Step three: Confess his undying love to you and Salazar willing, if all goes well, immediately begin planning your summer wedding to be held at Berkshire Cottage after which the two of you will live happily ever after with your two dogs and horde of brown eyed cherub cheeked children you miraculously return his affections.

Admittedly, Enzo had his work cut out for him when it came to managing his expectations. Avoiding daydreaming about your life together before you even agreed to a date would probably be the best place to start. All jokes aside, he would consider it a miracle if he somehow pulled this off without stuttering and stumbling over his words like the bloody lovesick idiot that he was. 

Needless to say, his plan was a work in progress, but it was a plan nonetheless. 

After purchasing the concert tickets, Lorenzo was more than ready to pop the question and by more than ready, he meant that he was a complete nervous wreck and could hardly keep his breakfast down as he sought you out in your usual spot in the courtyard. 

It was unusually sunny that day for the Scottish Highlands, which Enzo took as a good omen. Perhaps Aphrodite had finally taken pity on him after years of yearning. Whatever it was, he sent a silent prayer to the goddess of love to grant him luck and good fortune in his endeavors. That, and to muster up the strength to avoid swallowing his own tongue as he approached you. 

Because there you were, sitting in the sunlight underneath a willow tree, a book in your lap, the warm breeze billowing through your pretty little sundress. The frilly white one dotted with bright yellow daisies—Enzo’s favorite. Prompted by his footsteps, you looked up and smiled at him like he was your favorite person in the entire world. His knees nearly buckled at the sight. 

Merlin, he truly was as pathetic as Mattheo and Theo said. 

But he simply couldn’t help it. Enzo was hopelessly smitten.

“Hi, Enz,” you greeted, throwing your arms around him in a bear hug as you were wont to do. 

“Hi, honey,” Enzo greeted, chuckling softly against your hair. “I missed you at breakfast today.” 

You patted the spot next to you on the picnic blanket, which Enzo obediently settled into. If you asked him to bark, Enzo had no doubt that he would do that on command too. 

“It’s so nice out today,” you remarked, tilting your head back and soaking up the rare sunlight. “I thought I’d take my breakfast out here. Besides, I knew you’d find me. You always do.” 

“Hmm, it’s not exactly hard to do,” Enzo teased. “I just look for the girl with her nose stuck in yet another romance novel.” 

You playfully rolled your eyes. “As if you’re not always reading them over my shoulder, you nosy little busybody.” 

“Fair point,” Enzo said with a soft chuckle. “You win this one.” 

“Shall I read my book aloud to you?” You teased, poking him with the newest installment of your favorite series. “I know you were curious about the wings last time.”

“As much as I would love that,” Enzo cleared his throat, “I actually wanted  to ask you something.” 

“What is it, Enz?” 

Marry me and be the mother of my children? Too forward. Definitely way too forward. Date first, then Enzo can start considering the marriage proposal and possible progeny. Salazar, he truly was a mess. 

“I was—um, wondering if you’d like to—” His heart was pounding so loudly that he could hardly hear himself speak. “Would you like to accompany me to the Wicked Sisters concert this weekend?” 

The question came out in one beleaguered breath, strung together so quickly that it took you a moment to process what he was asking. Then thankfully, you smiled. 

“I’d love to come with you.” 

Enzo tried his best to refrain from pumping his fist into the air in celebration. Was it too early to retrieve a betrothal ring from his family’s vault in Gringotts? He already knew the exact piece he would pick. A cushion cut pink diamond halo ring with a pavé custom band that once belonged to his great-grandmother, aptly named La Vie En Rose.

A rose for his rose. 

It was perfect.

Some would say, meant to be.

His daydreams, arguably delusions, were momentarily interrupted by your expectant expression. 

“What day are they performing?” 

“Saturday.” 

“Oh no,” you said. “I’m so sorry, Enz. I already agreed to go to Hogsmeade with Cedric on Saturday.”

“Cedric,” Enzo repeated, the name tasting foreign and bitter on his tongue. “Diggory? You’re going to Hogsmeade with Diggory?” 

Of all the things that could possibly throw a wrench into his plan, he would’ve placed Cedric Diggory at the very bottom, but apparently the universe was playing a cruel joke on him. 

“Yes, he asked me earlier and I agreed, but I know how much you love the Wicked Sisters. I can ask Cedric to reschedule, I’m sure he’ll understand—”

It was tempting to agree, but Enzo wasn’t that selfish. 

You seemed genuinely excited at the prospect of going on a date with Diggory. He didn’t want to ruin that for you. 

“No, it’s alright. There will be other concerts,” Enzo said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You only experience your very first date once.” 

Enzo always thought that your first date would be with him. In fact, he was determined to hog every single one of your dates all to himself, but he had waited too long. Someone else had beaten him to it.  

“Thanks, Enz. I knew you’d understand,” you mumbled while nervously fidgeting with your fingers. “To be honest, I’m a little nervous. What if it’s terrible? What if I’m terrible and I bore Cedric to death?”

“Don’t be silly, honey. He’ll love you,” Enzo said. “Cedric would be an idiot not to.”

You smiled then leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m so lucky to have you,” you said. “You’re a great friend, Enzo.” 

Somehow, that hurt worse than anything else. 

When Saturday night rolled around, you were a jittery mess. 

Even though Daphne and Astoria were nice enough to help you with your hair and makeup, sprinkling in some much needed first date advice and reassurance here and there, you couldn’t shake the anxious feeling looming over you like a cloud. 

You had never been on a date before, so you had no baseline of expectancy when it came to emotions, but somehow you doubted that it was supposed to feel like this. You always thought it would just feel…right. 

Still, you plastered on a smile as Pansy inspected your reflection in the mirror. The raven haired girl winked in approval.

“You look hot, babe. You’ll have Diggory eating right out of your hands,” she declared matter-of-factly as she charmed your nails into a pretty pink shade. “Remember: always let him open doors and pull out your chair for you. It makes men feel useful. Your emergency gloss is in your purse, along with some mint and mouthwash in case you need it. Oh, and condoms too.”

“Pans!” You chided, blushing furiously while Daphne and Astoria giggled behind you. “It’s our first date. He’d be lucky to get a parting kiss at this rate.”

Pansy smirked. “Good,” she says, nodding proudly. “I like a witch who knows her worth.”

You squeaked in surprise as she patted your bum. “Now, go in your closet and get changed. I hung your dress up for you.” 

The dress that Pansy had chosen for you was more daring than anything you would’ve picked. It was a pretty blush color with white frills that flared out at the hips and dipped at the neckline. At first glance, you were definitely skeptical about whether or not you would be able to pull it off, but once you slipped the dress on, you were pleasantly surprised to find that it fit like a glove. 

You stood in front of your closet mirror, quietly admiring the way the fabric hugged your curves. You should’ve known better than to doubt. There was no one in the wizarding world who had a more gifted eye for fashion than Pansy Parkinson. 

As you finished zipping the dress up, the fabric caught on a snag. You tried to coax it into cooperating, but had no such luck. After helplessly fumbling with it for longer than necessary, you finally admitted defeat and walked back into your room for assistance. 

“Pans, I think the dress is caught on a snag do you mind helping—”

You stepped dead in your tracks when you found Enzo staring at you from the doorway. His gaze swept over you in appreciation, giving you a boost of confidence that you didn’t even know you needed. Thank Merlin for Pansy and her impeccable taste. 

“You alright, Enz?” You asked, tilting your head at your best friend. “I thought you lot were heading out to the concert soon.” 

Enzo licked his lips, his throat bobbing. “We were, but Pansy sent me to fetch her flask. She thinks she left it here.” 

You retrieved the silver and emerald engraved flask from your bed and handed it to him. Enzo was uncharacteristically quiet, his cheeks flushed as your fingers brushed against his. 

“Thanks,” he said softly. Warm brown eyes looked up at you earnestly. “Did you need help? With your dress, I mean. Sounded like you ran into a bit of trouble.” 

“Oh yes,” you nodded enthusiastically. “It seems to have snagged. Would you mind zipping me all the way up?”

“Course not,” Enzo replied as he slipped the flask into his pocket and stepped closer. You held your breath as he stood in front of the mirror, caging you against the vanity table. “Turn around, honey.”

You flushed, chewing your bottom lip as you faced the mirror. Behind you, Enzo positioned himself a hairsbreadth away and swept your hair over your shoulder. His touch was gentle, reverent almost, as his fingers found the back of your dress. 

The heat radiating off of him made the room feel warmer than usual. You watched from the mirror as his features twisted in concentration, a crease forming in the furrow of his brows as he smoothly untangled the zipper from the fabric. 

“Here it is,” Enzo said softly, his breath cool against your skin while he zipped your dress all the way up. “I think I’ve got it.” 

You fidgeted with your hands before smoothing them down the front of your dress, if only to give yourself something to do besides gawk at your best friend. “Thank you,” you said with a smile. “How do I look?” 

Enzo sucked in a breath as you examined your reflection. He was quiet for a moment, a steady presence at your back as he took you in. 

“You look beautiful.” 

Enzo met your gaze in the mirror, those familiar brown eyes twinkling with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. 

“You are beautiful.”

You turned slowly, attempting to read his expression, but Enzo had already replaced whatever it was with his usual charming smile. 

“I should get going,” he said wistfully. “Have fun, tonight.” 

“You too, Enz.”

You felt a tinge of disappointment as he walked towards the door. Then, as if he couldn’t help it, Enzo turned around and stared at you for a beat longer before bidding you farewell with a parting grin. 

“I hope your first date is everything you dreamed of.” 

Enzo was gone before you realized that it wouldn’t be. You had only ever dreamt of going on your first date with one person and it wasn’t Cedric.

Enzo tried his best not to wallow in self-pity, which he was doing a rather shite job of, according to his ever helpful friends (see: aforementioned twats). In his opinion, his moping was actually quite justified given that the love of his life was going on a date with another man tonight. 

At this point, you and Cedric would’ve just arrived at Hogsmeade. Enzo could picture you in your pretty pink dress, the one that nearly sent him into cardiac arrest earlier, sweeping into whatever fancy restaurant Diggory had reserved, beaming brightly enough that the sun would be jealous of the brilliance of your smile. 

Enzo could practically hear Diggory complimenting your dress, not knowing that you looked just as beautiful in your ratty pajamas. The sound of it was grating in his ears, the banter, the jokes, the stupid arse question of where the loo was—

He paused. 

Because surely, that was just his imagination running wild. Surely, he wasn’t actually hearing Cedric ask where the toilets were whilst in line for the concert. Surely, he wasn’t actually seeing the gormless tosser standing next to Cho Chang like you weren’t at Hogsmeade waiting for him. 

“What the fuck?”

Pansy’s incredulous voice all but confirmed it. Before the rest of their group could piece together what was going on, Enzo was already marching straight towards Cedric. 

“Diggory,” he seethed, “What the hell are you doing here?” 

The git had the nerve to casually shrug. “Cho got last minute tickets. I couldn’t pass it up.” 

Enzo tried his best not to murder the man right then and there. “Did you tell Y/N that you weren’t going to make it to your date?” 

Judging by Cedric’s sheepish expression and Cho’s glare, the answer was a resounding no. “There was no time,” he stuttered pathetically. “I mean, I’m sure she’ll understand.” 

His fist collided with Diggory’s jaw before the older boy even finished the sentence. Cedric reeled back, stunned, but Enzo had already landed three more punches before his friends managed to pull him away. 

“Leave it, mate,” Theo said, gripping him by the back of the collar. “He’s not worth it.”

Enzo struggled against his friend’s hold, attempting to launch himself at Cedric once more. “I’m gonna kill him.” 

Mattheo blocked his way. “Trust me, we’re more than happy to beat him senseless for Y/N.” Enzo stopped struggling at the mention of your name. “But right now, she needs you.” 

Pansy nodded in agreement. “Go get your girl,” she said with a knowing look. "This is your chance.”

“I don’t know what you mean—”

“Please,” Theo said as he shoved Cedric straight into Mattheo’s path. His curly haired friend struck a blow to Diggory’s side. “As if we don’t all know how pathetically in love with Y/N you are.” 

“I, for one, am sick and tired of all the puppy dog eyes and constant drooling,” Mattheo said with an emphatic nod. “It’s time you do something about it.” 

“Please, let me go—”

Theo smacked Diggory upside the head. “Don’t be rude, Diggory,” his best mate said. “Can’t you see we’re having a moment?” 

“I don’t want any trouble.” 

“You think we’re trouble?” Mattheo said with a chuckle. “We’re just the warm up, mate. It’s Parkinson who you should really be afraid of.”

Pansy shot Cedric a cold glare as she twirled her wand between her sharp, manicured fingers. “I’m going to make you regret that you were ever born.”

Diggory paled as the three of them crowded him into a corner. Pansy looked over her shoulder, raising a dark brow at him. “What are you still doing here?”

Enzo blinked, then stepped back. He needed to get to you now. He spun on his heel, apparating faster than he ever had before. Before Enzo disappeared entirely, he could hear Pansy’s words of encouragement echoing in his ears. 

“Don’t fuck it up, Berkshire!” 

Twenty minutes. 

You had been waiting for twenty whole minutes before the reality of the situation finally dawned on you. Cedric wasn’t coming. You were alone in a fancy dress, in the middle of a crowded Three Broomsticks, while all of bloody Hogwarts seemed to be shooting you pity glances through the window.

It would’ve been humiliating, had you not felt so relieved. Sighing, you flagged down the barmaid and relinquished your table for the other couples waiting outside. 

“Wait!” cried a familiar voice. “I’m here.” 

Enzo stood before you, panting and breathless as you stared at him with wide eyes. He looked as though he had run from London and back. “What are you doing here, Enzo?” 

Your best friend took a moment to compose himself. Even with his cheeks flushed and hair windswept from the unexpected bout of cardio, Enzo still looked as handsome as ever. 

“Your date couldn’t make it tonight, so I’m here to take his place.” 

You crossed your arms. “He stood me up, didn’t he?” 

Judging by the way Enzo’s eyes softened, you already knew the answer. You supposed you should've felt disappointed or perhaps even angry at being blown off, but instead you felt nothing of the sort. If anything, you were glad Enzo was here. 

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Cedric is paying for it as we speak, but let’s not waste any more time talking about that waste of space. I’m here to be your date and we’re going to have a fantastic time.” 

“Enz, you really don’t have to—”

Your best friend shook his head. “I know, but I want to. You got all dressed up and you look stunning. I’m not letting that all go to waste. I want to give you the first date that you deserve.”

“But you were supposed to see your favorite band,” you said. “I can’t let you miss that.” 

“They may be my favorite band, but you’re my favorite person.” Your eyes threatened to well up at the sincerity written in his expression. “I can’t let my best girl down.” 

You choked back a sob as Enzo held out his arm. He huffed out a surprised breath as you launched yourself at him, hugging around his waist and breathing in his familiar scent. In that moment, you were convinced that he was an angel sent just for you. 

“Thank you, Enzo,” you murmured against his chest. “I’m really glad you’re here.” 

“Of course, honey,” he said softly into your hair. “You know I’ll always find you.”

After gathering yourself together, you slapped a hand across your forehead. “Oh no, I already gave up my table and the queue is a nightmare.” 

Enzo just smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said. “There’s somewhere else I want to take you anyways.”

Le Jardin d’Amour, the new French restaurant that you had been dying to try for the past month, came into view. You remembered seeing a line wrapped around the establishment that extended all the way out into the street the last time you visited the village. Pansy said it was nearly impossible to score a reservation there and for good reason. 

The restaurant had a whimsical feel to it, styled after a French cottage that was both cute and cozy. Not to mention romantic. 

The exterior was covered by sprawling green ivy and dotted with cotton candy colored flowers that made it appear that much more charming. The inside was equally gorgeous, with its exposed brick, arched glass ceiling, and twinkling tealights. To top it off, there was an enormous lemon tree in the outdoor garden that made everything smell citrusy and sweet.

“I’ve been wanting to try this place for ages,” you murmured, taking everything in with excitement. “How did you get a reservation? They’ve been booked out since they opened.”

Enzo smiled sheepishly as he scratched the back of his head. “I heard you telling Pansy about it a few weeks ago,” he cleared his throat. “So I had them reserve a table. I hadn’t quite gotten around to asking you yet though.” 

“But how did you know what day to reserve?” 

“I didn’t,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I just told them to hold the table every Saturday night.” 

You blinked in surprise. “You’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that you booked a table at this very expensive restaurant every Saturday night for an entire month just for me?” 

Enzo flushed. “I know it’s silly, but I just wanted to be sure that when I finally got the nerve to ask, I’d be able to take you somewhere nice. I’m sorry…that’s probably weird, right?” 

You shook your head. “No, it’s not. I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

The shy smile Enzo rewarded you with made your heart skip a beat. 

Despite the abysmal start, the evening was actually turning out to be quite lovely. The waiter had seated you right under the lemon tree, which gave you the perfect view of the rose garden out back. It was a warm, breezy night and the stars twinkled brightly while you and Enzo ate and chatted. 

As promised, your best friend had been the perfect gentleman. He opened the door for you, pulled out your chair, and even fed you little bites of his food because he knew that you would want to try everything that you could. Despite your excitement, you hardly even remembered the food. 

All you could think about was how easy it felt. Perhaps it had always been that way between you and Enzo. He was your best friend. The person who knew you better than anyone else. Until tonight, you thought it was just the nature of your friendship, but then you tried to imagine sitting here with any of your other friends and knew that it wouldn’t have been the same. 

Butterflies fluttered against your ribcage every time Enzo looked at you. He made you feel a giddy sort of excitement that felt nervewracking, but comforting all at the same time. It was like jumping off a cliff only to find that he was already waiting to catch you the entire time. 

Midnight snuck up on you like a thief in the night. The restaurant had cleared out hours ago, save for a few stragglers like the two of you who didn’t seem to want to end the night. You finally took the hint after the waiter dropped by with the check. When you offered to split the bill, Enzo nearly spit out his drink. 

“Not a chance in hell, honey.” 

The walk back to the castle was peaceful. You kept glancing over at Enzo from the corner of your eye, trying not to blush every time your fingers brushed together. It was silly, given how affectionate you usually were, but for some reason,  reaching out to hold his hand felt like the most daunting thing in the world. 

You fidgeted with your fingers, twisting the rings on your knuckles. It was a nervous habit of yours. One that your best friend knew all too well. 

Without breaking his stride, Enzo slipped his fingers through yours, walking and talking like he hadn’t just awakened something in you that you could no longer ignore. You supposed it had always existed—this deep, innate knowledge that your connection with Enzo was a once in a lifetime kind of thing. 

Knowing him was its own sort of magic. Enzo was like catching sunshine between your hands, warming every part of you until you forgot what it was even like to feel cold.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said softly, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “I’ve got one more stop planned for us.” 

You squeezed his hand, gesturing for him to lead the way. Enzo cut through the main street, weaving behind shops and homes before reaching a narrow alleyway. You peeked behind his back to see sacks of sugar floating through the air, tunneling in and out of the back door of a bakery. The sugar dotted the air like snow, coating the air with its sweetness. You had never seen anything like it.

Enzo watched with a smile as you looked up in awe. “It’s like a sugar storm,” you said giddily. “It’s beautiful.” 

You giggled as your best friend twirled you into the middle of the alley where the flurry was at its thickest. Sugar coated your hair, your lashes, and your clothes, but Enzo didn’t seem to mind as he pulled you close. It felt natural to lean into him and rest your head against his chest, swaying to the rhythm of his heartbeat. 

Falling for him was like this sugar storm, not all at once, but gradual, slow, floating faster and faster until it coated everything around you. 

As you looked into those honey brown eyes, you knew that this was always what it was supposed to feel like. Warm, familiar, safe—like finally coming home after being away for so long. 

You melted into his touch as he brushed the sugar off of your lips with his thumb. His gaze was molten gold, sweeping over you with such tenderness that it made your heart leap in your chest. It was the most alive you’ve ever felt, but if he kissed you right now, you might drop dead. 

Enzo tasted like sugar. He kissed you, softly, sweetly, like nothing else in the world mattered besides memorizing the feel of your lips against his. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he brought you closer, kissing you breathless until you didn’t know where you ended and he began. 

You were both panting for breath when the two of you finally pulled away, his forehead pressed against yours as he flashed you a breathtaking smile. “Merlin, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.” 

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” 

“Because you’re my best friend and I was afraid of losing you.” 

“You could never lose me, Enzo,” you said. “It took getting stood up by that stupid prick Cedric for me to realize it, but I think I always hoped that my first date would be with you. This was the perfect night. You…you’re just perfect.” 

“Perfect?” Enzo teased. “You’re not leaving me much room for improvement for our next date, honey.” 

You blinked. “You want to go on another date with me?” 

“You’re the only one I want to go on dates with, Y/N.” 

A sudden realization hit you at that moment. “Earlier this week, when you asked me to come to the concert with you…” Enzo smiled shyly as you wiped the sugar off of his cheek. “Were you trying to ask me out on a date?” 

“Yes,” he admitted. “I had a plan and everything.” 

“And what exactly did this plan entail?” 

Enzo spun you around, pressing you against the brick wall. “Well, we’d go to the concert first of course. Dance and sing our hearts out like we always do. Then, I’d take you to dinner. That part I actually got right. At some point, I’d muster up the courage to actually kiss you instead of just thinking about it.” 

“I think we can check that off the list,” you said with a giggle as you pecked him on the lips. “Anything else left in that plan of yours?” 

“Mhm,” Enzo said as he littered your cheek with kisses. “I would’ve given you a whole bouquet of roses. Your favorite. Hell, I even thought about filling your room with it, but that seemed a bit much, so I asked for a rose from the garden instead.” 

You gasped in delight as Enzo retrieved a single red rose from his pocket. “I thought I could charm it to never die, that way you’ll always have a reminder of our first date.” 

It was such a sweet and touching gesture, but that was just who Enzo was. You sniffled as you carefully clutched the rose to your heart. 

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Enzo.” 

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he teased. “That definitely wasn’t part of my plan tonight.” 

“I’m sorry. It’s rude of me to interrupt, isn’t it?” He chuckled softly as you attempted to compose yourself. Merlin, you didn’t think your heart could take anymore. “Was that everything?” 

“Almost,” Enzo said as he wiped a stray tear away. “The only thing left is telling you how I feel, but I think you might already have an idea.” 

“I do,” you admitted softly, “but I still want to hear you say it.” 

Enzo took a ragged breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “I feel like you’re the first person I want to see when I wake up and the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep.” 

This time, you couldn’t stop the flood of tears from falling freely. You looked into those sweet brown eyes as Enzo laid his heart bear for you. 

“I feel like you’re my best friend, but also so much more than that. I feel like you’re something I’ve been looking for my entire life without realizing you’ve been right in front of me the whole time.” 

You let out a broken sob, smiling despite the tears clouding your vision. “Most of all, I feel like I’m home when I’m with you. I love you, Y/N.” 

Enzo smiled against your lips as you kissed him. “I love you too, Enzo.”

You loved him. 

You loved him. 

Enzo couldn’t quite believe his luck. The love of his life actually loved him back. The walk home took twice as long as it usually did because he kept stopping to kiss you every chance he got. It was like once he started, he simply couldn't bring himself to stop. 

The plan had been a total success. Enzo would’ve never imagined that he would be standing here, pressed up against the door of your dorm, stealing as many little kisses as you allowed. You looked so beautiful—cheeks flushed, lips kissbitten, hair still covered in flecks of sugar while you giggled softly against his lips. 

“It’s getting late, Enz,” you murmured. 

Enzo hummed as he tilted your chin, peppering kisses all over your face. 

“Mhm.” 

“We should probably go to sleep.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m serious,” you said with a breathless laugh. “I know how cranky you get without your beauty sleep.” 

“Worth it.” 

While Enzo knew that you were absolutely right, he simply didn’t want the night to end. The dinner, the sugar storm, the confession…it was better than anything he could’ve ever expected. Enzo was convinced that if he went back to his room, this would all just be a dream that he never wanted to wake up from. 

“Then don’t go back,” you whispered softly. Enzo blinked, not realizing he had said that last part out loud. “Do you…do you want to stay the night?” 

In truth, Enzo wanted to stay forever, but he supposed that spending the night was as good a place to start as any. 

The rest of the evening was filled with sweet kisses and innocent touches. Enzo was more than content to take it slow, to savor the novelty of pouring out his affection for you without having to hide how he truly felt. The two of you lay side by side, cheeks pressed against the pillows like you often did before, only this time you finally knew that he loved you. 

As he buried his face in your neck and cuddled you close, Enzo started going over his new plan. 

Step one: Fetch his great-grandmother’s ring from Gringott’s first thing in the morning. 

Step two: Discuss the logistics of a summer wedding at Berkshire Cottage with Pansy. 

Step three: Propose to the love of his life and hope to Merlin that you’ll say yes. Oh bollocks, he should probably ask you to be his girlfriend first, right—

“Enz?” 

“Yes, honey?” 

“Thank you for tonight,” you whispered softly, stroking his hair with the most breathtaking smile on your face. “I’m so glad it’s you. I think it’s always been you.” 

In that moment, Enzo scrapped whatever plan he had concocted in his mind in favor of kissing you breathless instead. He poured everything he couldn’t put into words into that kiss, the years of pining and yearning, of falling hopelessly and desperately in love with you, all culminating to this perfect night. 

“It’s always been you for me too, love.”

And he would never get tired of reminding you. 

Mattheo Riddle wasn’t exactly known for his considerate nature. In fact, he was notoriously lacking in it.

He was well aware that nothing at Hogwarts stayed a secret—honestly, he was part of the reason why.

In second year, the moment he caught wind of Lorenzo’s crush on that Ravenclaw, he practically sang it up and down every corridor, playing matchmaker with the subtlety of a drunken Hippogriff.

In fourth year, when Draco admitted—in passing—that Granger was “sort of hot in a terrifying way,” Mattheo nearly hexed him into the next era. Still, he whistled and hummed the Wedding March every time they passed each other, just to make Draco suffer.

And just last year, he’d personally tortured Theo over his crush on that Hufflepuff—publicly, relentlessly—until she finally caved and started dating him.

So yeah. Now that he had a crush, there was no way in hell he was letting anyone find out. Especially not Theo.

Because if there was one thing Mattheo had earned in life, it was karma. And this? This would be brutal.

Well… that. And—

“Fratellone~” (big brother~)

Mattheo’s entire nervous system short-circuited.

Your voice floated into the common room like smoke and sugar, playful and sweet—and there you were, head poking in, eyes wide and sparkly, looking right at Theo.

He sat lazily on the sofa with Mattheo beside him, but Mattheo would’ve been lying if he said the sight of your big, pleading doe eyes didn’t make him swoon just a little.

He also tried not to react to the way you were fluttering your lashes like you were auditioning for a Veela commercial.

Theo chuckled, rolling his eyes, "What do you want?"

"Will you promise to say yes first?" You asked sweetly, lips pursed in a pout, rocking on your heels with your eyes wide like a tragic fairytale character.

Theo scowled at you—but there was no real malice in it, "Like hell. What do you want?"

"Some allowance." You replied, tilting your head just slightly—and Merlin help him, Mattheo almost pulled out his wallet for you.

Theo, however, was unmoved. He scoffed, "Yeah, right. What happened to all your allowance? I’m not giving you a single knut."

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you flopped right between the two of them, your shoulder brushing Mattheo’s as your scent flooded his brain.

He stared straight ahead. He did not inhale. He definitely did not imagine himself burying his nose into the crook of your neck and taking in your scent.

"Theoooo," You whined, stretching his name like syrup, "I want to go to Hogsmeade this weekend with my friends. Pleeeease?"

He narrowed his eyes, grimacing again, and you let out another pitiful whine.

A beat passed before he finally sighed, "Fine. Go get my wallet from my dorm."

You grinned, victorious, as you pulled the wallet straight out of your robe pocket.

Theo let out a scoff of disbelief, "Unbelievable."

You merely gave him a smile.

"You know," He grumbled as you pocketed the money, "when I ran out of allowance, I didn’t have anyone to scam with big eyes and fake innocence. You’re lucky you’ve got such a good big brother."

You huffed, smug, "That’s your job as my big brother. If you wanted the special treatment, you should’ve been born second."

Mattheo very calmly decided that if Theo ever found out about the state of his crush, he would simply have to fake his own death and transfer to Durmstrang under a new identity.

After a couple weeks of hopeless, spiraling, late-night-scribbling-his-name-next-to-yours-on-scrap-parchment kind of pining, Mattheo had finally made up his mind.

He was going to tell you. Actually confess. Like a proper idiot in love.

It was stupid, really—how nervous he felt. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure what was worse: the actual feelings, or the fact that he was handling them like a fourth year with his first crush.

Honestly, he felt like he was in over his head—and Mattheo Riddle never felt that way. His comfort zone was massive. He wasn’t the type to second-guess himself, or get shy, or blush when someone looked at him a second too long. If anything, he was usually the one making other people uncomfortable with how confident and shameless he was.

He had always been the type to take charge of any situation. If he wanted something, he said so. Gave the time and place. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No vulnerability.

But with you?

With you, it was different.

You made him feel like the floor might disappear from under him at any second. Like rejection from you wouldn’t just sting—it would wreck him.

And maybe that was dramatic, maybe even pathetic, but he’d take pathetic over regret any day. At least if he confessed, he could say he’d tried. Even if it went horribly. Even if you laughed in his face.

(Which he was only mildly worried about. Okay, more than mildly. He’d had an actual dream where that happened. Twice.)

Still, he figured he had to try. At least this way, if it all fell apart, he’d know he hadn’t kept his mouth shut like a coward. And, of course, he owed Theo the basic respect of asking you out properly.

So he waited. Bided his time.

And when he saw you one night alone in the library—half-asleep over your Charms essay, ink smudged across your fingers—he figured this was it.

Game time.

You looked up at the sound of his footsteps, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

“Mattheo Riddle?” You teased, “In the library? Are you lost?”

He tried to fire something back. Something snarky or clever or Mattheo-ish.

Instead, all he managed was a breathless smile.

Your teasing faded instantly. You sat up straighter, “Are you okay?”

He exhaled through his nose, nodded once, “Yeah. I just… I need to tell you something.”

Your expression softened, open and patient, “Okay. Go ahead. I’m all ears.”

He blinked. Swallowed.

Then immediately began spiraling.

“It’s just that—I think you’re a—no, wait. That’s not how I wanted to start. I’ve been feeling like this for a couple months—shit, no, that sounds stalkerish—”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing in concern. Mattheo Riddle, Hogwarts’ most sarcastic menace, was stammering like a first year. You’d never seen him like this.

“Mattheo?” You asked gently, “Just say it. I promise I won’t judge you.”

He ran a hand through his curls, letting out a breath.

“It’s not you judging me that I’m afraid of,” He muttered, “It’s just… I’ve never had these feelings before. Not like this. And it’s been driving me insane, not saying anything. I’ve wanted to for weeks. But there’s Theo—you know he’s my best mate—and I didn’t want to make things weird or screw it all up. But honestly, I don’t think I care anymore. Not when it feels like this.”

He looked up at you finally, eyes wide and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen on him before.

You looked upset. Maybe even heartbroken. Mattheo felt his stomach drop.

A beat passed.

Then you smiled. Slowly. Brightly.

“I think I understand what you’re saying, Mattheo.”

His heart nearly stopped, “Y-You do?”

You nodded eagerly, eyes shining, “Yeah. And—wow. I mean—this is amazing news.”

A smile bloomed on his face, stunned and almost disbelieving, “Wait. Really? You think so?”

“Of course I do!” You laughed, standing to wrap your arms around him in a tight hug, “This is great. I’m so happy for you.”

He froze for a second, then melted into it, arms winding around you with relief pouring through his chest. He tucked his face into your hair and breathed in the scent of your shampoo.

Finally.

He’d done it. He’d told you. And you—Merlin, you felt the same. You really—

You pulled back, still smiling, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His brain short-circuited.

“Listen, I should get to bed,” You said, gathering your books in your arms with a small smile, “But we’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”

Mattheo nodded, eyes wide and glassy, like he wasn’t entirely sure what dimension he was in, “Y-Yeah. Okay.”

You gave him a wink—light, teasing, completely unaware of the emotional earthquake you’d just caused—and turned, heading down the corridor toward the dorms. Your footsteps echoed gently, fading into the stillness of the night.

The second you turned the corner and were safely out of sight, you bolted into the nearest empty hallway, nearly tripping over your own feet as you pressed your back to the wall, books clutched to your chest, heart pounding.

Your thoughts were a blur.

Mattheo Riddle.

The guy you'd been lowkey—okay, not so lowkey—crushing on for weeks. The one who made your stomach flip every time he so much as looked at you. The same boy who’d just opened up to you with flushed cheeks and fumbled words and a nervousness you never thought you’d see on him.

You blinked rapidly, breath caught in your throat, replaying the entire conversation in our head.

You groaned, sliding down the wall until you were sitting on the cold stone floor, completely humiliated.

“I can’t believe this,” You whispered, “I was this close to asking him to Hogsmeade.”

The next morning was a blur.

You hadn’t slept.

How could you, after what happened in the library? After Mattheo Riddle—a boy you’d been quietly losing your mind over for weeks—had looked you in the eye and told you, with a trembling voice, and broke your heart.

You were the main character in an absolute tragedy.

You spent all of night thinking it through, picturing the next couple years in your future. You'd undoubtedly be around Mattheo for a lot of those years because of his closeness to Theo. Could you really survive that?

I mean, you had to, didn't you?

Just as the morning rays of sunshine began to flitter through your curtains you had attempted to strengthen your already flimsy resolve.

You were happy.

Really.

You were.

Fucking hell.

So when Mattheo found you in the Great Hall that morning and slid into the seat beside you with the most relaxed, pleased-with-himself smile you’d ever seen on his face, your heart sank.

“Morning,” He said, nudging you playfully, “Sleep okay?”

You blinked, “Um. Yeah. You?”

“Best night of my life.” He said, completely sincere.

You stared at him.

God, he must really be happy.

You cleared your throat and focused very, very hard on your scrambled eggs.

Mattheo, meanwhile, was thriving. You were a little quiet, sure, but he figured that was just nerves. Shyness. Maybe you were still processing the fact that he liked you. Really liked you. That he’d finally said it out loud.

He nudged you again, dropping his voice slightly.

“So, uh… when do you think we should tell Theo?”

Your soul left your body.

Tell Theo. Tell Theo?!

He wanted you to witness him breaking your heart in person?!

You slowly lowered your fork, “You want me to be there when you... tell him?”

Mattheo’s smile widened like your reaction was exactly what he was hoping for, “Yeah, I mean, obviously he’s gonna be weird about it at first—but he’ll come around.”

You stared at him, a strange buzzing in your ears, “Right. Um. I don’t think I should be there for that.”

His brows lifted, “Oh?”

“I just… I think it’s something you should do on your own. You know? One-on-one. No distractions.”

Mattheo nodded slowly, lips pressed together in thought, “Yeah. I get that. ”

“I just don’t think my presence would help.”

He chuckled softly, “You’re seriously adorable when you’re anxious.”

You blinked.

Mattheo tilted his head, confused for a split second… then smiled.

“Alright,” He said, nodding seriously, “I’ll talk to him later.”

You nodded back, forcing a smile, while internally screaming into the void.

There was a sharp knock on the door to your dorm room.

You sat up in bed, startled, textbook sliding from your lap. Your roommates all told you they were staying out late to finish their joined project in the library. You had been expecting to have the dorm empty for at least another hour.

“Who the hell—?”

The door creaked open, and Mattheo slipped inside, curls a little messy, eyes shadowed and stormy, shoulders slumped.

He gave you a little smile when he entered though it did little to betray his crestfallen expression as he trudged over to your spot on the bed before he threw himself on the mattress beside you. His arms immediately went around your waist in a hug as he hid his face into the side of your thigh.

Your heart jumped into your throat.

“Mattheo?” You whispered, brushing his curls away from his eyes, “What—what are you doing here? Is everything okay?”

He looked up at you like he wasn’t sure whether to speak or just collapse into your lap and stay there forever. A part of him didn’t want to say anything. He knew how much you adored your older brother. If you found out Theo wasn’t supportive of your relationship, it would wreck you.

But the way you were looking at him, gentle and concerned and so you, cracked him wide open.

“I told him.”

You blinked, “You told Theo?”

He nodded slowly. There was something behind his eyes—hurt, confusion, frustration. And something else too. Shame.

“How did he take it?” You asked, already knowing the answer.

Mattheo let out a bitter breath and ran a hand down his face, “Not well. He looked at me like I’d lost my fucking mind. Told me I was sick. Said I needed to back off before things got weird.”

Your chest caved in. Horror filling every pore and vein, inching itself into your bones. Yesterday, you had kind of hoped for this. But today? You were utterly mortified by your brother's actions.

“He said that to you?”

Mattheo sighed, closing his eyes and just enjoying the way you carded through his hair, “Yeah. I mean, I guess I get it. I didn’t exactly ask for permission before anything happened—”

“Permission?” You echoed, getting increasingly angry.

He kept talking, “I just thought he’d at least be annoyed, you know? Or at least not act like I committed a sin. I mean, I don't really give a shit about what he thinks but he's my best mate.”

You stood, furious, “I can’t believe him. That’s so unfair.”

Mattheo looked up, slightly startled.

You were pacing now, barefoot, fury radiating off you like heat.

“I mean, what century are we living in? If you like someone, you like someone. He doesn’t get to make you feel wrong for that.”

Mattheo blinked, “Wait—what?”

“I’m gonna go yell at him,” You snapped, already marching toward the door, “He doesn’t get to treat you like that. He should be grateful you were honest. Gods, I’m so mad right now—”

“Wait, (Y/N), wait—” Mattheo followed, hands raised like he was trying to calm a charging dragon, “Sweetheart, it’s really not that big a deal. He’ll cool off, and I’ll talk to him again—”

“That’s not good enough!” You snapped, throwing open the door, “God, if Mama saw what a heartless bastard he turned into—ugh! I’m gonna hex his balls off!”

You stormed out, slamming the door behind you so hard it rattled on its hinges.

Mattheo stood in the silence that followed, staring at the now-closed door, stunned.

A long pause.

Then, very quietly:

“…I fear for my safety when we have our first fight.”

You stormed through the Slytherin common room like a woman possessed, your footsteps echoing furiously through the stone corridors.

People scattered. Literally scattered.

You weren’t sure where Theo was, but your rage must’ve acted as some kind of tracking charm, because the moment you shoved open the boys’ dorm door, there he was—lounging at his desk, reading some smug little book with his legs kicked up like he owned the castle.

“Theodore. Fucking. Nott.”

Theo looked up, startled—just in time for you to march over and yank him up by the ear.

“OW—WHAT THE BLOODY HELL—!”

“Don’t ‘what the bloody hell’ me, you absolute tosser,” You snapped, dragging him upright like a furious mother catching her child vandalizing a sacred artifact, “Mattheo tells you how he feels—he opens up to you—and you call him sick?! Are you completely deranged?!”

Theo flailed dramatically, “Let go of my ear! Have you lost your mind?!”

“Have you?! You’re supposed to be his best friend! Do you have any idea how hard that must’ve been for him?! He came to you vulnerable—and you rejected him like he was diseased!”

Theo stopped struggling. His face twisted in confusion.

“Okay, what the actual hell are you talking about?!”

You jabbed a finger into his chest with your free hand, “Don’t play dumb. Mattheo told me he has feelings for someone, and yesterday he went to confess. Then he shows up to my dorm crushed because you turned him away like he didn't mean anything to you!"

There was a heavy pause.

Theo blinked.

“…He told you he had feelings for someone?”

“Yes!” You snapped.

“And you thought he meant…” Theo trailed off, narrowing his eyes.

You squinted right back, “…You?”

Theo stared at you. You stared at him.

Then he grabbed your ear.

“OW—HEY—WHAT THE HELL—!”

“You utter moron!” He hissed, twisting slightly, “You thought Mattheo was confessing to me?!”

“I WAS TRYING TO BE SUPPORTIVE!”

“SUPPORTIVE?! OF ME DATING MATTHEO?! ARE YOU HIGH?!”

“STOP TWISTING, YOU GOBLIN!”

You both stood there like absolute lunatics, yanking on each other’s ears, realization dawning in slow-motion horror.

And then— The dorm door burst open. And Mattheo came in.

His eyes landed on Theo gripping your ear.

His entire face shifted.

“Oi! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Mattheo barked, “I don’t care if she’s your sister, Nott—get your hands off my girlfriend!”

You froze.

Mattheo took a step forward, jaw clenched, “Seriously. Let go.”

You blinked, “…Girlfriend?”

Silence.

A very heavy silence.

Mattheo turned to you, suddenly uncertain, “Yeah? I mean—you don’t mind, do you?”

You gawked at him, “Wait, hold on. I must’ve missed a few chapters—since when am I your girlfriend?”

Mattheo’s brows drew together, “Well… we didn’t officially say anything, but I thought… I mean, yesterday—”

“Yesterday?!”

“Yeah! You said it was amazing news. I thought that meant you liked the idea!”

“I did think it was a good idea! I mean—at the time I did! But then today happened—”

Mattheo stiffened, voice dropping, “So you don’t want to date me because Theo doesn’t like it?”

You stared at him, completely flabbergasted, “Mattheo… aren’t you gay?”

Theo, who had been suspiciously quiet up until this point, snorted.

Then he wheeze-laughed.

Then he bent over, dying, gasping for air like the world’s most dramatic mime.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” He cackled, “You two deserve each other. You're both idiots. I can't breathe.”

Mattheo’s face went red, “What?! What on earth gave you that impression?!”

“You said it yourself!” You shouted defensively, “You went on and on about your feelings—how hard it was to express, how you were scared, how it could ruin your friendship—with Theo! I thought you were coming out and telling me you were in love with him!”

Mattheo looked absolutely offended, “YES—because I didn’t know how to tell my best friend that I was in love with his baby sister!”

You blinked, “You never said my name! Not ONCE in that entire meltdown did the words ‘(Y/N), I like you’ come out of your mouth!”

“I thought it was implied! You kissed me on the cheek!”

“I’M ITALIAN, WE KISS EVERYBODY!”

Mattheo cleared his throat, “Okay. Um… let me try this again.”

You looked up at him, still a little dazed, “Please do.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking far too nervous for someone who once set a broom closet on fire in third year because, in his words, it was “for shits and giggles"

“I like you,” He said, voice low but steady, “You, Y/N Nott. Not your brother—despite his sparkling personality.”

From the bed, Theo flipped him off, “I hope you choke.”

Mattheo took a step closer, his tone softening as his eyes searched yours, “I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks. But I didn’t want to ruin things with Theo, and then I panicked—and started rambling—and then you kissed me and walked off, and I thought that meant yes. So I spent the last twenty-four hours floating around like a smug idiot thinking I had the girl of my dreams.”

You flushed, smiling despite yourself.

“I’m not gay,” Mattheo added quickly, glancing sideways at Theo, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, obviously. I just—look, I probably shouldn’t say anything else. Every time I open my mouth, you come up with a new wild theory and I nearly get accused of seducing your brother.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh.

Mattheo stepped closer again, “So now that we’ve established I’m not secretly in love with Theo… would you want to be my girlfriend?"

He looked so earnest. Like he’d hand you his heart and a backup heart just in case something happened to the first one.

Your own heart skipped. “I’d love to,” You said softly. Then, with a sly smile, “I’d kiss you right now if my brother weren’t staring.”

“And for that, I’m eternally grateful,” Theo deadpanned, still sprawled on his bed, “Also grateful that as of today, you are officially his problem. You want money? You hit up your boyfriend. You set something on fire? Talk to your boyfriend. I am washing my hands clean of you.”

He dramatically mimed wiping his hands in the air.

He then added, “To think I was worried your pathetic, lovestruck, gay ass was going to break my baby sister’s heart.”

Mattheo groaned, “Not gay. Just want to emphasize again how not gay I am. Not that there’s anything wrong with it! Just—Merlin’s beard—I’m shutting up now.”

Theo smirked, “Smart move.”

Mattheo sighed and looked back at you, “...Still want to kiss me?”

You grinned, “I wouldn't be opposed.”

Theo froze, "Wait a second."

“Don’t wait up.” Mattheo said smugly to his roommate, taking your hand.

“Mattheo I swear to God—”

You pulled him toward the door, laughing, while Theo yelled curses behind the two of you.

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@laufeysvalentine

Coming back to Hogwarts after a long summer of fun with his friends was always bittersweet. Lorenzo loved the castle—loved the way its magic still managed to surprise him, even though he’d grown up in a pureblood household surrounded by it all his life. He loved rooming with his friends, seeing them every day, laughing until curfew and sneaking out when they felt like it. He loved the independence, the freedom of living outside his parents’ reach. He loved Hogsmeade trips, the pranks, the nights that blurred together with mischief.

But the welcome feast always came with a reminder: tomorrow morning meant the return of classes, essays, and exams. The monotony of academic life loomed ahead. Lorenzo wasn’t looking forward to that.

For now, though, he lounged at the Slytherin table, waiting for the food to appear while watching the Sorting Ceremony. His eyes skipped over the first years’ faces, and he chuckled as a wave of nostalgia hit him. Some looked terrified, some confident, some wide-eyed with awe at the enchanted ceiling and floating candles. One by one, they were called to the stool. Cheers erupted with each new addition, and Lorenzo even offered a warm smile and polite claps for a shy little girl sorted into his house.

When the last eleven-year-old scurried off the stage, Lorenzo expected the feast to materialize. Instead, Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and glanced at her scroll again.

“(Y/N) (L/N).”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the Great Hall as an older student—one who had been sitting temporarily at the Hufflepuff table—rose and walked toward the front.

“Is she a transfer? From another school?” Draco whispered.

“Who gives a shit,” Mattheo muttered, eyes following you, “The new girl’s fit.”

“Forget the feast,” Theo drawled, “I’d rather have her for dinner.”

“Agreed,” Blaise chimed in smoothly, “She’s beautiful.”

Lorenzo frowned at that. Blaise rarely announced his interest so quickly, especially not in front of the rest of them. His gaze drifted back to you. Yes, you were beautiful. He wouldn’t deny that. But so was Daphne, or Astoria, or—Merlin help him—even Granger on her best day. So what was all the fuss about?

Onstage, you perched on the stool with a pink blush coloring your cheeks. The Sorting Hat slipped onto your head and murmured things only you could hear. For a moment, the hall was hushed, tense with curiosity. Then, with a booming voice, the Hat declared:

“SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table erupted louder than it had all night. You slipped off the stool, thanking Professor McGonagall, and began your walk toward them. Students scrambled to make room, even Mattheo shoving at Lorenzo to budge over so you might sit beside him. From the other tables, Ravenclaws craned their necks, Hufflepuffs gawked, and Gryffindors all but drooled as you passed.

You hesitated for a moment, eyes scanning the table, before they lit up at the sight of Pansy.

“Hello, Pansy.” You greeted warmly.

“(Y/N)! Welcome to Slytherin. Come, sit!” Pansy beamed, sliding over. You quickly sat across from Lorenzo, and he noticed immediately how the group’s posture shifted—everyone unconsciously leaning toward you, as though you were a magnet.

“This is (Y/N),” Pansy announced proudly, “We met on the train. She’s a transfer from Beauxbatons.”

You smiled, inclining your head politely, “It’s nice to meet you all.”

“The pleasure is all mine, darling,” Mattheo jumped in smoothly, flashing his most practiced grin, “Mattheo. Mattheo Riddle.”

You chuckled and shook his hand, “A pleasure.”

Lorenzo leaned back, crossing his arms as Mattheo practically melted into his seat trying to impress you. Blaise was already leaning forward with that lazy grin of his, and even Draco — who usually acted like he was above such displays — was listening a little too intently.

He tried not to roll his eyes when Blaise leaned forward, elbow on the table, voice smoother than usual, “So, Beauxbatons, hm? Explains the accent. How do you find Hogwarts so far?”

“It’s… bigger,” You laughed softly, and the sound of it made half the boys at the table sit up straighter, “Different, but beautiful.”

Merlin. They were hanging on your every word like you’d just recited Shakespeare. Lorenzo drummed his fingers on the table, his irritation bubbling.

Merlin’s beard.

Theo had inched closer now, his grin lazy but his eyes sharp, like he’d just spotted his next favorite pastime. Mattheo, of course, was already trying too hard, throwing you a wink every other sentence. Even Draco—bloody Draco—was smiling politely at you, as if he hadn’t just sneered at the first years minutes before.

It was ridiculous.

It wasn’t like he didn’t notice you were… well, gorgeous. Anyone with eyes could see that. But the way the others reacted was downright embarrassing. Every time you tilted your head or smiled politely, it was as though you’d cast a collective Confundus over half the table.

Lorenzo stabbed a roasted potato with his fork, muttering under his breath, “She’s not a bloody unicorn.”

Unfortunately, Theo heard him, “You blind, Berkshire? Look at her—”

“I am looking,” Lorenzo cut in, voice sharp but quiet, “She’s pretty, sure. But so are half the witches in this school. You lot are acting like you’ve never seen a girl before.”

"Nah, mate. She's in a class all her own, no one else here can even measure up."

And that was when you noticed him.

Across the table, just beyond Pansy’s shoulder, his eyes met yours. Unlike the others, they weren’t hazy with infatuation or glassy with awe. They were sharp, steady, cutting right through you like he was trying to figure you out.

Your lips stilled mid-smile.

For a heartbeat, it felt like the rest of the hall blurred into static. The noise of Mattheo’s laughter, Theo’s chatter, the scrape of cutlery—all of it faded.

You tilted your head slightly, curiosity flickering in your eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, almost involuntary. For just a moment, it felt like the two of you shared a secret that no one else at the table knew.

Then Pansy said your name and the moment snapped. You turned back, laughing at whatever ridiculous story Theo was spinning, but not before sneaking one last glance across the table.

Lorenzo was still watching.

***

Eventually, Lorenzo had come to a conclusion. The only reason everyone was falling over themselves for you was because you were new. The mysterious foreign girl from fancy Paris. That was all.

Never mind that he’d been to Paris more times than he could count and could firmly attest to the fact that Paris wasn’t shit. The city was overrated, the people were snobs, and the food? He’d had better at his grandmother’s table. If Paris was your only selling point, then Hogwarts was collectively delusional.

He assumed the fascination would wear off after a few days, once the novelty faded and everyone went back to their routines. But apparently, he’d been far too optimistic. Because if anything, the infatuation only seemed to increase.

Crowded hallways parted for you as if you were some sort of queen, while Lorenzo got shoved and elbowed like every other unfortunate soul. In Potions, students passed you the freshest ingredients without hesitation, while he was left picking through shriveled roots. In Herbology, you somehow ended up with the intact, pristine equipment, while his gloves had holes and his shears were always half-rusted.

And the worst part? You didn’t even seem to notice. You stuck close to Pansy, sharing her bench, chatting quietly, utterly oblivious to the chaos orbiting you. You didn’t gloat, didn’t preen, didn’t even bat an eye when half the room bent itself out of shape just to hand you something.

Which should have made it easier to ignore. But it didn’t.

Instead, something in him twisted tighter each time. A hot, coiling irritation whenever he saw someone pressing a perfect ingredient into your palm, or rushing to adjust your chair, or lingering too close just for the chance to brush against you.

And it was hypocritical, wasn’t it? He wasn’t exactly a stranger to pretty privilege. All it took was a charming smile from him, a tilt of his head, and half the girls in their year would fall over themselves to offer the same things. He’d accepted it plenty of times without a second thought.

So why, then, did it bother him so much to watch it happen with you?

Why did it feel different—sharper, almost personal—when it was you being handed things in the hollow of your palm?

Lorenzo didn’t have an answer. He only knew that every time it happened, something stirred in his chest, a restless frustration he couldn’t name. And he hated it.

***

Lorenzo wasn’t much of a Quidditch enthusiast, but he always made it a point to watch the first match of the season. His best mates were on the team, and if nothing else, it gave him a chance to shout himself hoarse at Gryffindors for an afternoon.

He didn’t bother leaving early—front row seats were a nightmare, bodies pressing against your back, threatening to knock you clean over the stands. He much preferred the upper rows where he could see everything without being jostled.

Maybe, if luck was on his side, he’d even snag a seat in the section usually reserved for Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. They never missed Draco’s first match of the year, and his auntie Cissa always insisted he sit with them if space allowed.

He had just made his way down into the common room when Pansy practically lit up like a Christmas tree at the sight of him.

“Enzo! Thank Merlin you’re here!”

Before he could even respond, she was hurrying toward him, tugging someone by the wrist—someone he hadn’t realized was standing just off to the side. You.

“Do you mind just taking (Y/N) down to the pitch for me? She’s never been and I don’t want her to get trampled.”

Lorenzo blinked, only now noticing you hovering just behind her. You looked slightly embarrassed, as if you’d walked into a conversation mid-plot.

“Pansy, it’s fine, I can—” You started.

“Nonsense,” Pansy cut in, waving off your protest, “He’s going down there anyway. Just go together, what’s the big deal?”

For some reason, Lorenzo’s stomach soured at the idea. He shifted uncomfortably, hands sinking deeper into his hoodie pocket.

“Why can’t you take her yourself?” He asked flatly.

“I’ve got a meeting with Flitwick about future careers,” Pansy sighed, clearly annoyed, “Apparently this is the only time he’s free all week. And the others are already on the pitch. And—” She gave him a sharp look, “because I trust you.”

Lorenzo frowned. What did trust have to do with walking someone to the bloody Quidditch pitch?

Lorenzo’s brows knit together, but he sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, “Fine.”

“Perfect!” Pansy chirped, already steering you toward him, “Have fun, (Y/N)! Cheer enough for the both of us, please!” She gave you a quick hug and darted off before either of you could argue further.

That left the two of you standing there in the flickering green light of the common room. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Lorenzo exhaled through his nose, turned toward the exit, and muttered, “Come on, then.”

You shifted under his gaze, then offered a small, polite smile, “We don’t have to go together if you’d rather not. I can find my own way.”

He sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck, “It’s fine. I’m headed there anyway.”

You nodded, lips pressing into a small smile as you fell into step beside him.

The walk stretched long and quiet. The air was crisp, the chatter of distant students drifting down the stone corridors, but between the two of you, silence reigned. You tried, a few times, to break it.

“So… do you play?” You asked lightly.

“No.”

You waited a beat, hoping for elaboration. None came.

“Oh. Do you… like Quidditch, then?”

“Not really.”

You exhaled softly, giving up after that, and the walk settled into an awkward sort of quiet. Students kept glancing at you both as they passed, some slowing to offer you a smile or a wave, but Lorenzo didn’t even acknowledge them. His long strides carried him forward without pause, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, expression unreadable.

When you finally broke out onto the grassy slope leading down to the pitch, the noise hit in full force—cheering, laughter, the echo of whistles. Bright banners rippled in the wind, green and silver clashing violently with red and gold. Crowds jostled at the entrance to the stands, fighting for good seats.

You faltered, momentarily overwhelmed by the chaos. The crush of bodies, the sound, the color—it was a lot, all at once.

Without thinking, Lorenzo’s hand shot out, closing around your wrist before someone could slam into you from behind. He tugged you sharply out of the way of a group of Gryffindors barreling past, his grip firm, grounding.

You blinked up at him, startled. He was still frowning, but his hand lingered a second longer than necessary before he let go.

“Try not to get run over.” He muttered.

***

Slytherin had won, of course.

The common room was practically vibrating with celebration—emerald banners strung across the walls, tables piled high with butterbeer bottles and Honeydukes wrappers. Music blared from a charmed gramophone in the corner, and the laughter of students shook the stone walls, carrying over the clatter of goblets and cheers.

The party hadn’t officially started until a couple of hours after the match, which gave you and Pansy just enough time to slip away. After her meeting with Flitwick, she had met you at the pitch and guided you back to the common room herself, leaving Lorenzo behind to congratulate Mattheo, Theo, and Draco on a match well played.

By the time they’d showered and returned to the common room, ready for a proper celebration, the party was already in full swing. The moment they entered, the room erupted into cheers, drinks raised, friends hollering over the music.

Pansy had changed into a little black dress that hugged her figure, and you were dressed in Slytherin green, the silky fabric catching the light just right. Heads turned as you both moved through the crowd, the usual hum of admiration for you amplified by the festive atmosphere.

Lorenzo noticed immediately. Not the way the silk of your dress clung to your curves, not the glint of your jewelry that made it look like droplets of water were teasingly sliding down your neck, not even the way your hair caught the lamplight—though, of course, all of that was impossible to miss.

No, it was something else entirely.

It was the way you stayed close to Pansy, quietly observing from the circumference of the party instead of pushing yourself into the throng, even though the center of the room seemed like your natural habitat.

Lorenzo, for his part, had left the pitch and returned in a crisp shirt and dark trousers, looking as effortlessly composed as ever. He moved through the crowed of people with his disarming smirk, a drink in one hand, a girl's waist in the other. Just like the drink, the girl was cycled through the second he got a good enough taste.

Meanwhile, you found yourself staring at the long table lined with bottles of contraband liquor. Firewhisky, mead, enchanted vodka that shimmered like starlight in its glass—and at the center, a giant crystal bowl of alcoholic fruit punch that smelled suspiciously like it could floor a grown wizard with one sip.

Your fingers hesitated over the options before you quietly reached for a slim can of sparkling seltzer—meant as a chaser more than an actual drink. You popped it open, the soft hiss of carbonation disappearing under the music, and let the cool fizz sit on your tongue.

Instead of throwing yourself into the crowd like most of your housemates, you drifted toward the edge of the common room. From there, you could watch the mess of bodies on the makeshift dance floor, their laughter blurring into the bass-heavy beat. Theodore found you not long after, his smirk tilted just enough to be teasing as he dropped into conversation with you.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself.” He commented sarcastically, nodding toward the chaos in the middle of the room.

You laughed softly, shoulders relaxing. Theo was easy company, his wit sharp but his presence calm, and for a while you let yourself enjoy the quiet exchange.

But soon enough, his attention was claimed elsewhere—cheers erupting as a group of students dragged him away toward the fireplace, insisting he down a row of shots to celebrate blocking the most bludgers that day. You gave him a small wave, lips quirking, and then you were alone again, seltzer can still cold in your hand.

That was when a tall seventh-year slipped into the vacant spot beside you.

His grin was broad, practiced in the mirror too many times, and his eyes glittered with the glassy haze of firewhisky. He leaned in before you could step aside, the smell of alcohol curling off his breath.

“So,” He drawled, voice low in your ear to compete with the music, “is it true French girls kiss better, or is that just a rumor I should test for myself?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness, and instinctively stepped back. But he followed with a half-step forward, crowding you against the back of a velvet armchair. His grin widened, confident in the way boys often were when intoxication blurred the line between charm and intrusion.

Your hand came up to press lightly against his forearm, the gesture gentle, even polite, as you tried to maneuver away. “Haha, that's really more of a myth.” You said, your smile tight but disarming, hoping to diffuse without sparking a scene.

Still, he leaned closer, mistaking your poise for invitation. His hand braced on the back of the chair beside you, effectively boxing you in.

“C’mon,” He said, his voice dripping with cocky amusement, “don’t play coy. One little kiss—it’s a party, isn’t it?” His hand braced on the chair behind you, effectively caging you in, his body heat uncomfortably close.

You shifted, trying to keep the situation from escalating. “Can you move away from me, please?” You replied evenly, eyes darting toward the crowd, “Just because it's a party doesn’t mean I owe you anything.” You pressed more firmly against his arm this time, angling to slip away.

He only grinned wider, his other hand ghosting toward your waist as though he could steer you back against the chair. “Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” He slurred lightly, the words playful in tone but weighted with assumption, “You’ll like it, I promise—”

And that was when another hand clamped firmly around his wrist, halting his movement midair.

The boy’s hand hovered just inches from your waist when another, firmer hand caught his wrist midair.

“Judging by your ex-girlfriends’ accounts, I don’t think you should make promises you can’t keep.” A smooth, low voice drawled over the music.

The seventh-year blinked, squinting at Lorenzo, swaying slightly on his feet. “Who—who asked you, huh?” He slurred, voice rising with alcohol-fueled bravado, “I was just… just trying to be friendly!"

He tried to lean back toward you, a careless, drunken grin plastered across his face, “C’mon, you want to kiss me, don’t lie.”

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. He didn’t flinch, didn’t raise his voice, but the weight behind his presence was enough to make the boy falter. The grip on the wrist didn’t loosen; it was firm, inescapable, unyielding.

“You’re drunk. And annoying. Back off,” Lorenzo said evenly, voice calm but edged with warning, “Now. Before I make you regret it.”

The boy stumbled backward, muttering incoherently, clearly unsure if Lorenzo was serious—or if he wanted to test him. He disappeared into the crowd without another word.

You were still shivering slightly, adrenaline leaving your body in uneven waves, when Lorenzo finally released your wrist. The music thumped around you, but the edges of it felt sharp, almost overwhelming after the tension of the encounter.

“Next time someone like that bothers you,” He said, voice low but firm, “Just make a scene. Don’t wait for someone to show up and come save you. You're a witch, are you not? Hex his balls off.”

You gave a small, nervous laugh, trying to steady yourself, though your hands trembled a little, “I—I’m fine. I just… got a little startled, that’s all. Really.”

But Lorenzo wasn’t convinced. Without a word, he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your still shaking shoulders, the weight warm and grounding. His eyes softened slightly as he added, “No. You’re done for tonight. Go to bed.”

“I’m… okay,” You tried again, tugging slightly at the edges of the jacket, “I want to stay. It’s… it’s the first house party. I just....want to fit in, you know?”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment he stared at you, the chaos of the party around you fading into background noise, "Can't say you were doing much of that by standing in the corner completely sober."

You sighed, looking up at him, caught between the desire to protest and the strange comfort of his jacket around you, “Perhaps you’re right.”

Lorenzo’s eyes softened ever so slightly, “Just… go rest tonight. You’ve already made an appearance, and everyone else is already sloshed—they won’t even remember if you left early.”

You glanced up at him, eyes catching his in the dim light of the common room. There was something about the way you were looking up at him, something that was hidden behind your eyes that he couldn't quite place but that was way deeper than anything the two of you shared. Something that made the chaos behind him fade into background noise.

"Okay," You whispered, "Thank you, Lorenzo."

***

The next morning, before breakfast, you hovered outside the Slytherin boys’ dormitory with Lorenzo’s jacket folded neatly over your arm. You stood there, staring at the door, debating with yourself. Really, why were you making such a big deal about it? You were just returning his jacket. It wasn’t something that needed to be so thought over.

You could even wait until you saw him at breakfast and hand it over casually, like it didn’t mean anything at all.

But the thought of doing it in front of everyone, of the curious stares and inevitable whispers, twisted something in your stomach. No—better to get it over with now.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you knocked.

There was a pause, some muffled shuffling inside, and then the door creaked open. Lorenzo appeared, still tugging on the cuff of his shirt, his tie hanging undone around his neck. His dark hair was messy in a way that didn’t look careless so much as deliberate, and he blinked at you with mild surprise.

“(Y/N)?” His voice was rougher than usual, freshly woken, the question hanging somewhere between confusion and curiosity.

The sound seemed to spark interest from the room behind him—three other heads popped up almost comically, like meerkats.

“Good morning.” You said softly, shifting the jacket in your arms like it might shield you from the weight of all their stares.

“Good morning, (Y/N)~” Mattheo purred, leaning lazily against the bedpost. His unbuttoned shirt hung off his broad shoulders, exposing the lines of his abs with theatrical nonchalance. The smirk on his lips told you he was very much doing this on purpose.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. With a deliberate shift, he leaned against the doorframe, his frame blocking most of their view of you. His voice came low, smoother than usual but clipped at the edges, “Did you need anything?”

“Um—no, just…” You shifted, clutching the jacket tighter against your chest before finally holding it out with both hands, “I wanted to return your jacket.”

His eyes flicked down to the bundle in your arms, then back to your face. Something unreadable passed across his features. “You could’ve just given that back in the Great Hall.” He said evenly, though his voice carried an undertone of confusion.

You swallowed, feeling heat crawl up your neck, “I didn’t want anyone to misunderstand.”

That caught him. His brow furrowed slightly as he reached to take the jacket, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange. The touch was brief, accidental, but it sent a ripple of warmth through your skin, like a spark finding kindling.

“Misunderstand what?”

The question startled you, making you blink up at him. Surely he knew. Surely a boy like Lorenzo—social, sharp, always aware—understood the game people played at Hogwarts. How the smallest gesture could spiral into whispered speculation by lunch, exaggerated into something entirely different by dinner.

“Um… nothing,” You mumbled quickly, dropping your gaze, your voice thinner than you meant, “Just… misunderstand.”

“Right,” He said quietly, “Thanks.”

***

The library was quieter than usual, a soft hum of enchanted quills and the occasional rustle of parchment filling the high-ceilinged room. Your eyes bounced around the crowded space, books clutched tight against your chest as you searched for an open spot.

Unfortunately, every table seemed taken—clusters of students hunched over their notes, quills scratching, parchment piled high. Some weren’t even studying, just leaning close to whisper and laugh with their friends, and you found yourself quietly frowning. Why would anyone choose to chatter here, of all places, instead of their common room? And why did one student think it fair to take up an entire table for four?

Your gaze kept drifting until it landed on him.

Lorenzo.

He sat alone at a table tucked into the far corner, posture perfectly straight, brow furrowed over a thick stack of textbooks. His quill moved sharply across the page, deliberate and neat, and the way he leaned into his work made it clear he didn’t want to be disturbed. The other three chairs at his table sat empty, almost daring you to consider them.

You hovered where you stood, indecisive.

He wasn’t your biggest fan—that much was obvious—and you weren’t sure what he would make of you interrupting while he was so focused. On the other hand… it wasn’t as though his table was overflowing with notes. And if you sat with Lorenzo, you knew one thing for certain: he wouldn’t chat you up like half the others in this room.

Taking a small breath, you gathered your courage and stepped closer.

“Um… excuse me,” You said softly, keeping your voice polite, almost tentative, “Is this seat… taken?”

For a moment, Lorenzo didn’t look up. His quill continued its steady scratching across parchment, jaw tight in concentration. You began to wonder if he’d even heard you—or worse, if he was deliberately ignoring you.

Then, slowly, his eyes lifted, dark and sharp, fixing on you with that unreadable expression of his.

“Depends,” He said, voice low and even, “Are you planning to talk the whole time, or can you actually study in silence?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I— I can be quiet.” You promised quickly, shifting the weight of the books in your arms.

His mouth twitched, the faintest smirk threatening at the corners, “We’ll see.”

With a lazy flick of his hand, he gestured toward the chair opposite him. You slipped into it carefully, placing your books down as quietly as possible, suddenly hyperaware of every sound you made—the squeak of the chair, the scratch of your quill, even the way you exhaled.

For several long minutes, you both worked in silence. Lorenzo’s handwriting was fast but precise, his notes neatly organized in a way that made your own look almost childish. You caught yourself sneaking glances more than once, and each time, he seemed to notice.

The library was hushed, the kind of quiet where even the faintest scratch of a quill seemed magnified. You glanced up from your own notes, eyes wandering until they landed on Lorenzo. He was hunched forward, one hand braced against his temple, the other drumming his quill against parchment. His expression was pinched, irritated.

You glanced over from where you’d been reviewing your own work and caught him muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “bloody useless assignment.”

You hesitated, then gathered your courage and padded over. “Stuck?” You asked lightly, tilting your head at the half-scribbled parchment in front of him.

He looked up sharply, quill still in hand.

He sighed, tossing the quill down, “Care of Magical Creatures essay. Three bloody feet on Veela, and I’ve only managed one. I don’t know what else Hagrid expects me to say—that they’re pretty and men lose their minds?”

The words made your stomach twist, but you forced a small, amused scoff to cover it.

You set the parchment down, the faintest nervous energy prickling under your skin. Then, with a scoff you hoped sounded natural, you leaned back in your chair, “I wouldn’t exactly consider them creatures. They’re human beings.”

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked up to you at that, a spark of surprise in them. He leaned back in his chair, studying you, "What's it to you? Interested in a job in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, are you?"

You shrugged, sliding into the empty seat beside him, doing your best to keep your voice casual even though your pulse was picking up. “Maybe I just don’t like the idea of reducing people to… exotic curiosities. Veela aren’t pets to be studied, they’re—” You stopped yourself before you went too far, quickly reaching for his parchment, “Anyway. Let me see what you’ve got. Maybe I can help you add something.”

His lips quirked slightly, the hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, “If you’re volunteering to do my homework for me, I won’t stop you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the tight knot of nerves in your chest loosened just a little as you skimmed the page.

You leaned closer over his parchment, careful not to smudge his ink. Lorenzo’s handwriting was neat but scattered with angry little scribbles—crossed-out sentences and arrows pointing to half-formed ideas.

“So your premise,” You began, trying to sound casual, “is that Veela are basically… a scapegoat for men’s foolishness?”

He huffed, tapping the page with his quill, “Exactly! It’s ridiculous. ‘Oh, I cheated because she’s a Veela and I couldn’t control myself.’ It’s like blaming the weather for burning your house down. And of course, it doesn’t even make sense magically.”

You raised a brow, tilting your head, “How do you mean?”

“Veela magic doesn’t work on the person they’re in love with. The soulmate, or someone they truly care about. When it actually comes to enchanting someone they want to enchant, or someone who truly knows them, the magic doesn't work. What does that say about their allure?"

You couldn’t help a small laugh, shaking your head, “That’s… actually not a bad argument. You’re taking a real angle on it.”

"So you agree with me?"

“Not exactly,” You said, smoothing the paper flat, “It’s just… well, you’re right. Veela charm doesn’t work on the person they care about most. But if you look at it another way… maybe it’s a kind of self-preservation. Soulmates are protected by magic, by design. So a Veela can’t unintentionally—or intentionally—hurt the one person they’re most connected to. It balances the… ridiculous, one-sided effect of their allure.”

Lorenzo leaned back, running a hand over his face, “Wow… that’s actually… really insightful. I think I can actually finish this essay now.”

You grinned faintly, feeling a small spark of satisfaction, “Glad I could help.”

The quiet between you settled easily, almost companionable, and for the first time in weeks, Lorenzo’s usual inscrutable expression softened just a fraction.

You pretended to focus on his parchment, quill tapping idly against the margins, but Lorenzo wasn’t nearly as distracted as you hoped. His eyes flicked from you, to the room, and back again.

He saw the way you noticed.

Every time someone passed the table, their eyes lingered on you just a beat too long. Every time a chair scraped or parchment rustled, you glanced up with that same tiny flicker of unease before quickly lowering your gaze, arranging your expression into something neutral.

You weren’t encouraging the attention—far from it. If anything, it looked like you were trying to disappear into the seat, as though ignoring it might make it stop.

You caught yourself stiffening and quickly smoothed your expression into something casual, turning back to Lorenzo as if you hadn’t noticed at all. The trick was never to react. The more you acknowledged the staring, the harder they tried to get your attention.

And yet, Lorenzo could tell. The tighter way you held your shoulders, the careful curve of a half-smile when someone’s gaze caught yours, the way you deliberately didn’t respond because you knew it would only draw them closer.

“...Doesn’t that get exhausting?” He asked suddenly.

Your head jerked up, startled, “What does?”

He leaned back in his chair, smirk faint but his eyes sharper than usual, “All the staring. The whispering. You pretending you don’t notice.”

For a moment, your mask slipped—the tiniest crease in your brow, the quick dart of your eyes toward the nearby table where two Ravenclaw boys had been not-so-subtly glancing your way. Then, almost instantly, you forced a scoff and straightened.

“I think you’re imagining things, Berkshire.” You looked back at your book.

But his gaze lingered on you, heavy and thoughtful, long after you bent over his parchment.

***

You were nestled into your usual spot in the common room, quietly thumbing through a book. After an exhausting week filled with deadlines, helping Lorenzo with his essay had cut into your own study time, and you’d ended up staying up late that night to finish your work. The next couple of days had been a blur of yawns and half-finished notes, and finally today you were looking forward to some downtime: a warm cup of tea in hand, a quiet chapter to read, and the comforting hum of the common room around you.

Then Lorenzo appeared at the entrance, a cocky smile plastered on his face as he strode over with purpose. Your gaze followed him, curious.

He stopped a few feet away, holding a scroll just inches from your face. You recognized it immediately—it was the essay you had so graciously helped him with. The glaring red “O” on the top and the smug pride in his expression left no doubt: he was in an excellent mood.

Blinking, genuinely impressed, you leaned forward to glance at the paper. Every mark, every sentence flowed logically, clearly showing effort—and, of course, plenty of your input.

“An Outstanding?” You echoed softly.

“Indeed,” He said, chest puffed with pride, “Hagrid even said I was the only one in the class who didn’t talk about Veelas like creatures.” He paused, his eyes meeting yours, a teasing glint in his gaze, “I owe my striking transcript to you, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips, “I see. So now my help is officially ‘life-changing.’ I should start billing by the hour.”

Lorenzo chuckled, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, “Hmm… tempting. But somehow, I think my gratitude will suffice for now.”

Your cheeks warmed at the comment, but you quickly masked it with a casual shrug, “Just don’t let it go to your head.”

He grinned, clearly amused, and for a moment the room faded away. It was just the two of you, comfortable and teasing, the kind of closeness that only comes after trust and a little shared work—and maybe a hint of admiration.

***

The common room was unusually lively for a weeknight. A handful of Slytherins were draped across couches and chairs, laughing and trading stories as the fire snapped in the grate. You sat in the armchair that really just had enough space for yourself, feet pulled up onto the cushion as you absentmindedly played with the threads on the ends of your stockings. Outside, the lights flickered slightly as the giant squid swam back and forth past the windows.

Draco was going on about how his family had just bought a villa just outside Paris over the summer.

“Paris is the best,” Pansy sighed dreamily from her perch on the armrest, “The food, the fashion, the art—honestly, I’d move there tomorrow if I could.”

“Not me,” Blaise said from across the room, tossing a small coin into the air, “I’m sick of the place. Overrated. Clichéd, if you will.”

“That’s the charm, though,” Pansy insisted, curling her legs beneath her on the couch, “The fashion, the cafés… I’d move there in a heartbeat if I could. Honestly, (Y/N), why would you leave the great city of love and lights for dreary Scotland?”

Your chest tightened. The question was innocent enough, but answering honestly was… complicated. You gave a small, wry laugh and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Paris is… beautiful,” You said carefully, keeping your tone light, “I had a good time at Beauxbatons, but I felt like I needed a change. It’s… not as perfect as you guys think it is.”

A brief, awkward silence followed. A few of the Slytherins murmured under their breath, attempting to redirect the conversation—commenting on the weather, Hogwarts, anything to fill the quiet.

But Lorenzo, sitting across from you, tilted his head slightly. His sharp gaze caught the way your hand had trembled ever so slightly when you spoke, the faint blush climbing your cheeks, and the subtle flicker of tension in your eyes as they bounced around the room, gauging the reactions of others, calculating their expressions.

He knew there was more behind that casual shrug than you were letting on. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it would take to draw it out of you.

Yet you remained seated, smiling softly, projecting calm and composure. For just a second, he thought he had just imagined the shadow of heartbreak cross your face.

***

The crisp autumn air carried the faint scent of baked goods and cider as you wandered through Hogsmeade, purse in hand, eyes scanning the shelves of Honeydukes. You had spotted a few rare chocolate treats imported from Paris, ones you’d adored as a child, and decided immediately that you needed them.

You counted the coins in your hand, but your mental math kept tripping you up. “Wait… if a Galleon is seventeen Sickles, and a Sickle is twenty Knuts—” you muttered in rushed French, frowning and pushing your hair behind your ear. The cashier watched, a quiet, amused smile playing at their lips as the different-colored metal circles in your hand blurred into incomprehensibility.

A shadow fell over your shoulder. “Need a hand?” Lorenzo’s voice was quiet, casual, but the warmth threading through it made your heart skip.

You blinked up at him, cheeks flushing, “I… I think so.”

He crouched slightly to get a better look at the coins, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. “Here,” He said, arranging them neatly, “That’s one Galleon, fourteen Sickles, and seven Knuts.”

He handed the coins over to the shopkeeper with a flourish, and you collected your treats, your fingers brushing briefly against his as he passed the money. Your heart jumped, and he caught your glance, offering a small, almost shy smile before blending into the crowd of students.

You let out a soft laugh, holding your chocolates to your chest, “Thanks… I don’t understand how your currency works at all.”

He shrugged lightly, eyes flicking up at you with that familiar intensity, “It’s a bit tricky at first. Most first-years make the same mistake.”

You tilted your head, a soft smile playing on your lips, “First-years, huh? So… I’m hopelessly behind, then.”

He shook his head, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, “Not hopeless—just inexperienced. But… that’s okay. Consider us even after your help with my essay."

You laughed, "You're gonna have to do alot more than that if you want to thank me for your first O in seven years."

He leaned just slightly closer, the space between you shrinking, and his eyes softened in a way that made your chest flutter. “Oh, I can think of a few ways.” He said, voice low, teasing, but somehow intimate.

You raised an eyebrow, playful, but your pulse quickened. “Do tell." You challenged, holding your chocolate treats like a shield.

He smirked, but instead of answering, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear, brushing your cheek gently. Your breath hitched at the contact, and he gave a small, knowing smile. “Sometimes,” He said quietly, “actions speak louder than words.”

You cleared your throat, feeling heat crawl up your cheeks, "And what might that be?"

He let his gaze linger on you for a heartbeat longer, the corners of his mouth tugging into a mischievous, yet tender, half-smile. “Well…” His voice dropped a fraction, softer now, almost conspiratorial, "I could consider letting you be my study buddy from now on."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes at him, "You just want to steal more of my brilliant ideas."

He gasped, clutching his chest, "You wound me!"

***

The courtyard was alive in that golden, drowsy sort of way it always was when classes had just let out—students spilling across the flagstones in clusters, laughter echoing under the stone arches, the autumn sun slipping lazily between drifting clouds. You had tucked yourself into the shadow of an archway, parchment stretched across your knees, quill tapping absently against your thumb. It was one of the few places you’d found any peace lately, where the noise of the castle blurred into the background.

Peace never lasted long.

“(Y/N)!”

You looked up to find a Hufflepuff boy standing there, a small bouquet of daisies clutched awkwardly in his hands, their petals charmed to shimmer faintly in the light.

Your heart sank. You already knew what was coming. Already braced yourself—carefully smoothing the micro-expressions from your face, steadying your eyes so they wouldn’t flick nervously around the courtyard, doing your best to appear unbothered. Hoping, at the very least, that he would be discreet.

Lorenzo had only just stepped into the courtyard when he caught the tail end of it.

The boy’s cheeks were blotchy with nerves, but his eyes were hopeful when he blurted, “Would you… maybe want to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?”

The world seemed to still around you. You swallowed once, heavily, willing your gaze not to dart to the groups you could feel watching. Then, with practiced ease, you slipped on a polite smile and shook your head.

“That’s sweet of you,” You said gently, “but no. I’m sorry.”

The boy’s smile faltered. He muttered something like, “figured as much,” before shoving the bouquet into his bag and trudging off, shoulders hunched.

The whispers rose immediately.

“Merlin, that’s the tenth one this term—” “Honestly, does she think she’s too good for everyone?” “She could at least give one of them a chance. It’s not like she’s perfect.”

Each word landed sharp as glass. Your smile stayed fixed, your eyes carefully pinned to the parchment as though the ink mattered more than anything else. But your hand trembled faintly against the quill, and though you stilled it with a deliberate breath, Lorenzo saw.

He leaned against a column, a book in hand he hadn’t so much as cracked open, watching. He caught every whisper, every cutting comment, and the slight tightening of your fingers around the quill before you forced yourself to relax again.

It didn’t make sense to him. Couldn’t they see the way their words carved into you? The way you’d looked cornered when the boy had confessed? To Lorenzo, the cracks in your façade were plain as day. Did no one else notice—or did they simply not care?

He hadn’t liked you at first, either. He hadn’t liked how pretty you were, how people seemed to trip over themselves just to look at you, how effortless it all seemed. But even he could see this wasn’t your fault.

And you—Merlin, you carried it like it was nothing. Smile, shrug, carry on. But it wasn’t nothing. Not with the flicker of tension in your jaw, not with the way your eyes skittered briefly toward the whispering groups before forcing themselves back to your parchment.

You waited a little longer, biding your time until the whispers began to die down. Finally, you rose, gathering your things with deliberate leisure before heading toward the castle—quickly, though not too quickly. Controlled.

Lorenzo snapped his book shut with a quiet thud. Enough.

He crossed the courtyard with that lazy confidence he wore like a second skin and fell into step beside you.

He didn’t say anything at first, just matched your stride, hands tucked in his pockets, expression unreadable. The courtyard buzzed behind you, but it felt like the air between you carried its own kind of weight.

Finally, Lorenzo broke it.

“You know,” He drawled, voice deceptively casual, “you could’ve just said yes. Gone to Hogsmeade with him. At least then people would stop whispering about how you reject everyone who asks.”

Your steps faltered for half a second, and you turned your head to look at him, brows furrowed. “And then what?” You asked evenly, “Go on a date or two, let him think he has a chance, and then dump him? So everyone can whisper about how I led him on instead?”

Something flickered in his expression—quick, sharp, gone in an instant. He’d been teasing, half-serious at best, but the way you said it, so certain, so worn… it sounded like experience. Like you weren’t just imagining what they would say. Like you’d heard it before.

Lorenzo slowed, his usual smirk faltering as his eyes searched your face, “...Has that happened?”

You didn’t answer immediately. The words seemed to stick in your throat, something bitter pressing against your tongue. You forced a shrug, eyes forward, though your voice dipped quieter than before.

“Besides,” You said finally after a long beat of silence, so softly he almost missed it, “I like someone else.”

That stopped him. For a moment, Lorenzo felt something in his chest tighten—surprise, confusion, something he didn’t quite want to name. But he said nothing, only slipped back into step beside you, though this time his silence carried less ease and more thought.

“Oh?” His voice came out smoother than he felt, though it scraped in his throat like glass, “And who’s the lucky bloke?”

It felt like wringing words out of his chest, like something sharp was lodged there. His usual lazy smirk was gone, his lips pressed in something closer to a line.

You gave a small laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Doesn’t matter,” You murmured, eyes fixed ahead, “He doesn’t feel the same way.”

For a fleeting second, something in Lorenzo’s chest twisted. Too tight. Too sharp. He swallowed it down, burying it beneath the casual mask he always wore.

“His loss.” He said finally, hands shoved deeper into his pockets, but he couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his tone.

***

The walk back from the library was quiet, the crisp autumn air filling the courtyard as you and Lorenzo trailed along the stone paths, your books tucked under your arms. The sun was dipping low, painting the castle walls gold, and the occasional chatter of students heading to dinner drifted around you.

You had both planned to study until dinner, but that plan had been quashed the moment Daphne Greengrass’s boyfriend made a scene in the library, disrupting your session. Apparently, they had a row, and now he was desperately trying to make it up to her, much to the inconvenience of the other students.

“That was… quite hard to watch.” Lorenzo chuckled, shaking his head as you both recalled the fifteen-minute spectacle of Daphne laying into her boyfriend, effectively blocking the doorway.

“Poor guy.” You murmured, running a hand through your hair.

“Dumbass didn’t even bring her flowers,” Lorenzo said, smirking, “My mother always told me to get a girl a bouquet if you did anything wrong—or anything right, for that matter.”

You shrugged, a small, teasing smirk tugging at your lips, “Perhaps she doesn’t like them.”

He blinked at you, genuinely perplexed, “What girl wouldn’t like flowers?”

“Well…” You hesitated, adjusting the strap of your bag as you chose your words carefully, “I’d take a potted plant over cut flowers any day.”

Lorenzo arched a brow, skeptical, the kind of look reserved for girls who claimed one thing but wanted something entirely different. He’d known plenty of them—girls who said they didn’t need titles on a relationship but wanted exclusivity, who claimed they didn’t care about gifts but were secretly disappointed when he showed up empty-handed.

“You want a jar of dirt? God, you French are impossible to please.”

“I’m serious,” You said softly but firmly, “Bouquets don’t make sense to me. To have something pretty, you have to kill it. It’s like people don’t value what made it beautiful in the first place—they only care about possessing it, no matter the cost. If you truly wanted something beautiful…” Your fingers toyed with a loose thread on your sleeve, “…you’d let it keep growing.”

The way you spoke, glancing off into the distance as though seeing something he couldn’t, made Lorenzo feel like it wasn’t really about flowers at all. There was something deeper beneath your words, something carefully held back, and it tugged at him in a way he couldn’t quite place.

Every pause, every subtle gesture felt deliberate, and he found himself straining to memorize it—not just the words, but the way you said them, the weight behind them—even though he didn’t yet understand why he felt he needed to.

He didn’t know why he needed to hold onto it, why it felt so important, but he still tucked that tidbit into the back of his mind, waiting until he'd need to use it.

He chuckled, half-amused, half-intrigued, “Is that why you’ve rejected every single guy who’s come up to you? Because he didn’t hand you a succulent?”

You laughed softly, shaking your head, “I don’t expect anyone else to get it. I just… prefer things that last, I suppose.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I don’t expect anyone else to get it. I just… prefer things that last, I suppose.”

For a moment, Lorenzo was quiet. Then, in a tone stripped of his usual teasing edge, he said almost matter-of-factly, “I can respect that. Just because you want something beautiful doesn’t mean you have the right to possess it.”

The words caught you off guard. He wasn’t mocking you, wasn’t brushing you off—he sounded like he actually understood. Your chest gave a small, startled flutter, and you found yourself squeezing the strap of your bag. For the briefest second, you considered telling him. Maybe he really would understand.

But the moment passed as quickly as it came. You pressed your lips together, tucking the thought away, and only nodded before letting the silence stretch comfortably between you again.

***

The Great Hall was its usual blur of noise, laughter, and clinking cutlery, candles floating high above casting warm pools of light. You were looking forward to the meal, mouth practically watering at the thought of pancakes drowned in strawberries and cream. But the moment you stepped past the doors, your appetite vanished as though someone had ripped it from you.

The room shifted. The buzz of chatter seemed to die down at once, leaving only a faint rustle of robes and the sharp echo of your own steps. Every head turned. Dozens—hundreds—of eyes latched onto you, cold and heavy, pinning you to the spot like you’d been caught trespassing where you didn’t belong.

Why were they—?

A horrible chill crawled down your spine. This was too familiar. The air, thick with judgment. The stares, unrelenting. Your gaze flicked across the hall, trying to separate one expression from the next, but they all blurred together the longer you looked: vengeful smirks, disgusted scowls, wary frowns, indifferent curiosity—but they all blurred together the longer you looked, merging into a faceless audience with wide, domineering eyes. And you were center stage.

“…said she’s a Veela.” “Transferred from France.” “Veelas are common there.” “Now we know why everyone keeps fawning over her—”

Your throat constricted, bile burning the back of it. You took a cautious step backward, your mind scrambling. How much did they know? Was it only rumor? Was your face betraying the truth? You tried to smooth your features into calm indifference, but the anxiety rushing through you pulsed in your eyes, impossible to hide.

Run? Stay? Deny? Laugh? Which would damn you less?

Your eyes darted to the Slytherin table, searching desperately for your friends, for a safe place to sit before someone cornered you. But the moment you spotted them, your stomach sank, the sting of tears burning behind your eyes.

They were staring at you too.

Pansy’s lips were pressed thin, concern buried beneath a veneer of hurt. Theo and Blaise—sharp-eyed, critical, their thoughts written plain as ink across their faces. Draco and Mattheo wore faint masks of disgust. But they all shared that same thin veil of suspicion.

You could practically hear the questions unspoken but loud in their eyes: Did we only like her because of her Veela charm? Has she been using it on us this whole time?

Not again. Please, not again.

Your gaze slipped, almost against your will, to the last of them. Lorenzo.

You almost wished you hadn’t looked.

His gaze was unyielding, pinning you where you stood. He didn’t look away. He didn’t soften. Something simmered beneath the sharpness of his eyes—something that struck you harder than disgust or suspicion ever could.

Betrayal.

The crack in your chest spread, shattering something you didn’t even realize you’d been holding together. You tore your gaze away before the tears could spill and turned on your heel.

And you left.

***

Lorenzo sat in the back of the classroom, notebooks open but barely touched, mind elsewhere. He had barely eaten breakfast, the food tasteless as he replayed the scene in the Great Hall again and again—the whispers, the sharp stares, the way your shoulders had stiffened, the moment you'd finally fled.

The door creaked open, and you stepped in. Your steps were measured, careful, almost like you was trying to make yourself small, to avoid drawing attention. But even through the chaos of the classroom, he could see you—the way your fingers clutched your bag, the faint tremor in your hands as you scanned the room.

Still, you went to your place. To Pansy.

“Hey,” you said softly, the word small, almost pleading.

Pansy glanced at you, her lips parting as if she might answer—but then she pressed them together, eyes flicking to the rest of the room, to the stares and whispers that hadn’t stopped since yesterday.

“Not now.” She muttered under her breath, gathering her things.

You froze.

Lorenzo felt it, the way you stiffened, holding yourself upright with every ounce of strength you had left. He watched Pansy stand, watched her skirt the desk and take another seat across the room, her back deliberately turned.

And then he watched you.

Your eyes lingered on the empty space beside you for a moment too long before dropping to the desk, your hand hovering over the chair as if you weren’t sure whether to sit or flee. The rest of the class pretended not to stare, but the silence was thick with curiosity, with judgment.

You didn’t break—not outwardly. You lowered yourself into the chair, pulled your books from your bag, and kept your head down. But Lorenzo could see it. The way your throat worked as you swallowed. The way your fingers trembled as they straightened the edge of your parchment. The way your jaw tightened to hold yourself together.

It was like watching someone drown quietly in the middle of a crowded room.

And for reasons he still couldn’t name, Lorenzo’s chest ached with every second of it.

The door creaked again, and Professor McGonagall swept in, robes swirling, the usual stern expression softened only slightly by the hint of morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Lorenzo sat up straighter, though his attention never wavered from her. He watched as she carried a stack of parchment to her desk, the classroom settling into the usual quiet hum.

“You may take your seats.” She commanded, and everyone quickly complied. Lorenzo watched her settle behind the desk, and his attention immediately flicked back to you—the way you tried to keep your back straight, the faint slump in your shoulders, the rigid tightness in your hands as you set your bag on the desk.

“Today, we’ll begin by returning your essays on the care and handling of magical creatures.” She announced, her voice firm. The students shuffled nervously, anxious to get their grades back.

McGonagall began the lesson, distributing essays with quiet efficiency. When she reached her, she handed back her parchment with a brief, “Good work.” and Lorenzo saw the familiar red O in the corner.

A quiet swell of whispers started almost immediately.

“She only got it because she’s a Veela, I’m sure of it.” "I guess even professors are not above pretty privilege." "Beauty over brains with Minnie, I guess."

The second you heard those words, your hands unwillingly curled into the parchment, wrinkling your perfect essay. Your eyes turned downward, not wanting to look at the way the students had all turned around in their seats to stare at you.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened. He wanted to stand, to defend you, to shout that you had earned it. He had personally seen just how much you studied, how much you valued your grades, how brilliant you were, a truly unique thinker.

He could feel your hands trembling ever so slightly as you gripped your essay. The smallest hitch of your breath, the subtle flicker of discomfort in your eyes—it made his chest ache. You were trying, as you always did, to maintain composure, to keep yourself from unraveling under the weight of the scrutiny.

But he tore his gaze away.

***

The common room was nearly empty, the usual warmth stripped down to a few glowing embers in the hearth. Shadows stretched long across the stone walls, flickering and bending with every pop of the fire. You had hoped to slip in quietly, make it to your bed without anyone noticing, but your plans crumbled the moment you saw him.

Lorenzo was there.

He leaned against the edge of the sofa, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dying flames. His posture was rigid, unreadable, and for a moment you thought he might not even notice you. But the way his shoulders tensed as you approached made your stomach twist. You had hoped this encounter would be calm, a chance to explain, to smooth over the hurt—but his presence alone made your chest ache.

“Lorenzo…” You began softly, stepping closer. Your voice sounded small, even to your own ears, “Can we talk?”

He didn’t turn. His voice, low and strained, cut through the quiet, “I have nothing to say to you—and even less to listen.”

The words landed like a physical blow. Your heart stuttered, chest tightening painfully. You swallowed, your throat dry, “Lorenzo, please—”

“No.” His head snapped up, eyes flashing, “You don’t get to ask things of me. You hid this for months! How did you think we’d react? That we’d just… carry on like nothing happened? Without a single ounce of suspicion?”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, a mixture of shame and fear that your secret had hurt him more than you had anticipated. You wanted to reach out, to explain, but your hands trembled in your sleeves. “I wasn’t trying to hide it from you. I just…” Frustration and exhaustion twisted in your chest, making it hard to find the right words.

“You just what?” His voice sharpened, cutting through the embers’ quiet crackle, “You just thought you’d keep it a secret while all of us—while I—began to care about you? How much of it was real, (Y/N)? Are my feelings real? Are you using your appeal even now? Is that the only reason I’ve noticed you at all?”

The words hit harder than you could have imagined. Tears pricked your eyes. “That’s not true, Lorenzo!” You said, your voice shaking, “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to treat me differently!”

He laughed, but it was hollow, bitter, and it made something inside you contract. Leaning back, he ran a hand through his hair, jaw tight. “Don’t kid yourself. You’ve been different since the second you stepped into the Hall. But things changed since then. We changed. I—” His hand fell to his face, and he cut himself off, the tension in his shoulders radiating frustration, “You should’ve told me before I started to—you didn’t even give me a chance. I thought you trusted me.”

“I do,” You said, voice barely above a whisper, trembling as you tried to steady your breathing, “I just… I didn’t want to lose you. People have been cruel about this before, and I didn’t want you—”

“That was my choice to make!” His voice cracked, and the anger in it was jagged, “Salazar, and now I’m sitting here thinking about all these months we’ve spent together, wondering how much of it was even real.”

“It was all real.” You whispered, tears spilling over, burning your vision as your throat constricted painfully. You wanted to reach out, to touch him, to make him see the truth behind your fear and your silence—but the words wouldn’t come.

His gaze cut to you again, piercing and cold, and you flinched under it, “And I’m supposed to what? Just trust you?”

You swallowed hard, your chest tight, “I thought… I thought you’d understand.”

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the soft crackle of the dying fire. You wanted to tell him everything, to make him see that your feelings—your friendship—had never been about magic, charm, or anything like that. But the words stuck in your throat, heavy and unsaid.

Instead, you pressed your lips together, taking a shaky breath, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He gave a laugh, bitter and hollow, shaking his head, “Great job.”

Before you could respond, he spun on his heel and stormed up the stairs, leaving you alone. Your hands flew to your face, muffling the sob that finally broke free. The quiet of the room, the dim light of the dying fire, and the shadows pressed down on you as your body shook with grief. You crouched there for a long moment, wishing somehow you could turn back time—or at least explain. But for now, all you could do was feel the weight of silence, the sting of misunderstanding, and the emptiness of the space he had left behind.

***

Dawn filtered through the tall windows of Dumbledore’s office, spilling soft gold across the polished floor. You sat in front of the headmaster's desk, shoulders hunched, hands twisting the edges of your robes, heart hammering with the weight of everything that had happened.

A sudden shimmer of magic announced the arrival of your parents. The second you had contacted them, they had immediately arranged to get a portkey ready to Hogwarts.

Before you could think, you were running into your father’s arms, burying your face against his chest. “Papa… I tried.” You whispered, voice breaking as hot tears slid down your cheeks.

He held you tightly, and for a moment the world outside didn’t exist. You felt the familiar strength of his embrace, the solid warmth that had always made the impossible seem bearable. But even through the comfort, one noticed the tight set of his jaw, the subtle furrow of his brow. For all his striking looks and presence, there was guilt there—because he had been the reason you were here, caught between worlds, exposed and vulnerable.

Your mother stepped closer, her hand brushing your hair, a quiet reassurance. You let yourself shiver into their warmth, letting the sorrow, fear, and frustration slip out in shuddering sobs. The morning light caught in your tears, and for the first time that day, you felt a fragment of relief, the sense that at least here, in this quiet, safe space, someone truly understood.

***

Pansy came barreling down the corridor, her heart hammering like a drum. Each step echoed sharply against the stone walls, her breaths coming in short, jagged bursts, leaving her gasping by the time she skidded to a stop in front of the Slytherin boys’ dormitory. Her knuckles flew against the door, the sound sharp and insistent.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a few bleary-eyed boys, squinting at her in confusion. “Pansy? It’s… early. What’s going on?” Mattheo mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“She—she’s here, right? (Y/N)?” Pansy practically shoved the words out, desperation threading every syllable, her voice catching in a half-panic.

The boys exchanged puzzled glances. “Why would she be here?” Theo asked, still half-asleep, leaning against the doorframe.

Pansy whirled, fixing Lorenzo with an intense, almost pleading stare, “You two—you both have that weird… thing going on. Do you know where she is?”

Lorenzo froze. His breath hitched slightly at the mention of you. His mind immediately began replaying the last twenty-four hours in agonizing detail: your tear-streaked face, the tightness in your voice, the sound of your muffled sobs echoing up the staircase as he walked to his dorm.

He tossed and turned all night, the words he’d shouted at you replaying over and over. Was he any better than the others when he had treated you like that? Did he have the right to get upset? Were his feelings for you real—or had he just convinced himself they were? Did you even know how he felt? Perhaps you did, perhaps you had made him feel this way.

His jaw tightened, fingers flexing against his side as guilt coiled in his stomach. He shook his head slowly. “No. I haven’t seen her since yesterday.” He admitted, voice quieter than usual, weighed with unease.

Blaise, now more alert, leaned forward, curiosity and concern in his voice, “Wait—what’s going on? Why are you freaking out like this?”

Pansy’s hands flew to her face, tugging at her hair in anxiety, then she pulled them down as if trying to steady herself. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with unshed tears, “I… I don’t know. Her things… they’re gone. Her chest is empty, her desk is empty. I tried asking the others, but—nothing. She’s just… missing.”

A tense silence fell over the doorway, thick and suffocating. The boys exchanged uneasy glances, the gravity of her words sinking in. Lorenzo’s chest tightened painfully, the cold knot in his stomach making it hard to breathe. He stepped closer, heart hammering against his ribs, mind racing with a flurry of guilt and fear.

Enzo’s jaw clenched, furrowing his brow as the memory of last night replayed in his head for the millionth time. Had he pushed you too far?

Pansy’s voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, “What if—what if something happened? What if—because of the way we treated her? Fuck—I went to bed early last night just to avoid talking to her. What if something happened to her?"

The words hit him like ice. His chest tightened further, guilt and fear coiling in a spiral he could hardly control. He couldn’t shake the image of your small frame, trembling, your eyes glistening as you tried to hide your tears. His hands itched to reach out, to make things right—but you weren't there.

Lorenzo’s gaze hardened, jaw clenching as he swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat.

And that’s how Enzo and Pansy found themselves standing outside Professor Snape’s office that morning—a half-dressed, panicked lot huddled together in the dim corridor. Their robes were thrown on haphazardly over their pajamas, hair still mussed.

They pounded on the heavy wooden door again, the sound echoing off the stone walls, and yet none of them flinched at the thought of the torrent of wrath and fury they were about to unleash upon themselves.

The door creaked open, and Professor Snape’s shadow fell across the threshold. His expression was as unreadable as ever, dark eyes scanning each of them with a mixture of mild annoyance and measured calculation. “Yes?” He asked, his voice low, smooth, but brimming with authority that made the air itself feel charged.

Pansy stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly as she tried to force the words out before the panic strangled her, “Professor… we… we can’t find her. (Y/N). She’s—she’s gone!”

Snape’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. He let the silence hang for a moment, letting the panic in the students’ voices sink in before speaking, “Her parents picked her up this morning. She went home for the holidays.”

The words hit like ice. Pansy blinked, confusion and disbelief washing over her, “The holidays… aren’t for another week.”

“Yes. She went early,” Snape replied, his tone clipped, precise. He didn’t flinch at the wide-eyed shock on their faces, didn’t soften his words for their panicked pleas.

Lorenzo’s jaw tightened, the frustration building in his chest like a storm pressing against his ribs, “You just… let her go? Miss a week of school? You’re okay with that?” His voice cracked slightly, more from the helplessness gnawing at him than from anger.

Snape arched a brow, his gaze sharp enough to make even Lorenzo pause. “Mr. Berkshire, despite what you may think of Hogwarts, this is an institution that prioritizes the welfare and development of its students. Ms. (L/N) wanted to go home early, and her parents agreed it was in her best interest. Furthermore, international students cannot always schedule Portkeys according to their own timelines; we provide additional discretion and consideration in such cases.”

Lorenzo felt something cold wash over him. Right, you lived in France. Even if he wanted to visit you, to straighten things out. You weren't simply a hop, skip and a jump away. He wouldn't be able to apparate there.

Snape’s eyes glimmered briefly with a cold, almost imperceptible calculation. He stepped back slightly, his hands folding neatly behind his back, leaving them to absorb the weight of the decision without another word.

The two of them stood frozen in the corridor, a thick silence settling over the stone floor. Pansy let out a small, shaky breath, her hands twisting together nervously. “What...what did we do.” She whispered, voice barely audible.

Lorenzo sank to the nearest bench, chest tight, shoulders hunched, as guilt and helplessness coiled together in his stomach, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely clasped together.

He could still see the way you had looked at him the night before, tears welling in your eyes as he shouted, as he accused you. He had been so sure then, so certain he was in the right—but now the certainty wavered. Was it really you he cared about? Or was it the pull, the allure, the irresistible charm he could never explain?

That didn't make any sense.

If it truly were the veela appeal, the rest of his dormmates would have been banging on Snape’s door with him, wracked with guilt the way he was. But they weren’t. They weren’t the ones who had pushed you, who had shredded your confidence piece by piece, and yet here he was, drowning in guilt, replaying every word, every accusation. He should feel guilty—he had pushed too far, ignored the tears streaming down your cheeks.

And yet… you had wanted to talk to him, not the others. That had to mean something, right? That your connection was deeper than the one you had with the rest? That you trusted him, that he mattered more to you?

But what if that was exactly why you had used your appeal, carefully, deliberately, to keep him wrapped around your finger—to make him want to see you, to apologize to you even though you were the one who had hidden the truth?

And yet—the memory of you voice, the sight of your smile, the sound of your laugh that sent a strange, intoxicating thrill rushing through his veins—they weren’t magic. Not entirely. That was you. That had to be you.

Still, doubt lingered like smoke curling around his heart. He wanted to believe, to trust, to go to you and say everything he hadn’t been able to the night before. But how could he be sure his feelings weren’t… tainted?

He leaned back, shoulders tense, staring at the ceiling as if the answers could somehow be etched into the stone above, and wondered if he would ever truly know the difference between magic and the person behind it.

***

Lorenzo sat slouched low in the armchair nearest the fire, head tilted back against the crushed velvet, eyes locked on the ceiling as though the flickering shadows overhead might hold the answers he couldn’t find. His jaw was tight, thoughts looping endlessly in a vicious cycle—he liked you. He didn’t know if his feelings were real. He liked you. He didn’t know if you had used your veela appeal on him.

Merlin, he loved you—

A sigh slipped out, heavy and tired, cutting the silence.

Theo, sprawled across the sofa with a book he clearly wasn’t reading, glanced up. His sharp eyes lingered for a beat before he let the book drop onto his stomach with a loud thud, “Merlin’s beard, Enzo, you look like either end of a blast-ended skrewt. This brooding thing is starting to get pathetic.”

Lorenzo didn’t so much as twitch, “Mind your business, Theo.”

Theo smirked, undeterred, and sat up, elbows braced on his knees, “Oh, I am minding my business. You moping around affects the whole bloody dorm. I cannot listen to your pathetic, wistful little sighs anymore. It’s like being haunted.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face, muttering, “Theo…” in warning, but Theo only shook his head with exaggerated pity, clearly enjoying himself.

“Relax,” He said, leaning back with a lazy stretch, “I’m just saying, stop acting like the world ended. You’ve got the rest of your lives together.”

That snapped Lorenzo out of his haze. His head jerked toward Theo, eyes narrowing, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Don’t fuck around with my feelings, you prat.”

Theo blinked, looking almost innocent, before he arched a brow, “You’re joking, right?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Lorenzo’s voice was sharp now, defensive, brittle.

Theo studied him for a long moment, then barked a short laugh, “Salazar, you’re denser than I thought. Don’t tell me you don’t know.”

Lorenzo’s brows pulled together, suspicion stirring, “…Know what?”

“That you’re her fucking soulmate, scemo.” Theo’s grin spread, slow and knowing, as if he’d just uncovered some great cosmic joke.

The words landed like a Bludger to Lorenzo’s chest. For a second, he just stared, breath stalling. Theo, of course, recognized the look of disbelief and pressed on.

“You were the only one at the opening feast who wasn’t immediately taken with her. Even Malfoy was tripping over himself that night. And you? You said she wasn’t prettier than fucking Granger.”

The firelight danced across Lorenzo’s face as his mouth opened, then shut again, something unsteady flickering across his eyes.

Theo leaned forward slightly, voice dripping with smugness, “Come on, man. You wrote that bloody paper in Hagrid’s class yourself. You know a veela’s soulmate is immune to their appeal.”

Lorenzo wanted to scoff, to tell Theo he was full of shit. But the denial stuck in his throat. Because the moment Theo said it, the memories rushed in—the way he’d been indifferent to you at first, how he hadn’t fallen under your spell like the others, how his feelings had only taken root as you drew closer. It wasn’t instant. It was gradual. Real. And that thought made his pulse quicken, his stomach clench.

Theo didn’t notice—or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He smirked wider, leaning back into the sofa like he’d just delivered gospel, “So quit sulking. Or at least go do it somewhere else—I cannot stand looking at your dumb mug for another second.”

***

The rain had just let up when the doorbell rang. You were curled up on the window seat in your father’s study, staring blankly out at the drenched garden, wondering who would visit in weather like this.

You padded toward the door, still in the soft cardigan you’d thrown on that morning, hair loose around your shoulders. You pulled open the heavy oak door.

And froze.

The last thing you expected was Lorenzo Berkshire standing on your front step, damp from the drizzle, his hair mussed from travel—but none of that made your breath catch.

It was the enormous potted rose bush he was clutching awkwardly in front of him, as tall as he was, the deep crimson blooms brushing his jaw.

“Hi.” He said, voice rough and uncertain in a way you’d never heard before. His usual sharpness, the polished wit, the shield of arrogance—it was gone.

You blinked, throat tightening, hands curling at your sides, “Enzo? What are you doing here? What on earth is that—?”

“I’m sorry,” He said, shifting the weight of the plant so it wobbled slightly in his arms, “I’m here to apologize. To beg for your forgiveness. And my mum always said flowers were the way to go, so…” He chuckled, though the sound was unsteady, holding the pot even higher though you could see his arms trembling.

The corners of your lips parted, but no words came.

“I’m so sorry, (Y/N),” He continued, voice raw, “I should never have said those things. I should never have treated you like that. I… I was just hurt because—”

“Because?”

“Because I thought my feelings for you weren’t real,” He admitted, stepping closer, letting the damp from his coat cling faintly to yours, “Since you came to Hogwarts, I saw people fawn over you, fall in love with you, even if you didn’t spare them a glance. When I found out you were a Veela, I thought… I thought what I felt was just like that. Shallow. Fake. That the feelings keeping me awake at night, driving me crazy… were all the same as theirs.”

He finally set the plant down, stepping closer still, the earthy scent of roses filling the space between you. “But I think I know now.” His dark eyes searched yours, vulnerable, “Am I… really your soulmate?”

A single, constrained nod, and relief softened the pained lines on his face.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked, voice breaking slightly.

“My whole life, I’ve been on the receiving end of endless and unwanted love and attention,” You whispered, emotions clogging your throat. “And the first guy I’ve ever—” You swallowed, trembling, "The first guy I’ve ever loved is the only one in the world who isn’t obligated to love me back. I… I was scared. You seemed so aloof… the only person who didn’t immediately fall for me but seemed the opposite. I was scared if I told you, you’d reject it. Say it wasn’t real… or go against it out of spite.”

Lorenzo’s heart sank. He could almost see himself, had he known earlier, dismissing the idea entirely—thinking the whole thing foolish, running from it, ignoring it. He swallowed the sting of that imagined scenario, leaning closer.

“And perhaps it was cowardly,” You added, your lip trembling, “but I just… I wanted to keep you in my life. Any way I could. Even if you didn’t feel the same.”

He cupped your cheek with a trembling hand, rough thumb brushing lightly against your skin, giving you the chance to pull away, to reject him. But you didn’t.

“I do,” He whispered, voice raw and breaking, “I do feel the same way, (Y/N). I have for months now. I love you.”

You searched his face, your breath catching as you found only sincerity there—sincerity tinged with pain, with regret, with something desperate and unguarded. Your heart began to pound against your ribs, hard enough to hurt, your eyes stinging as tears blurred your vision.

“Ever since that day in Hogsmeade,” Lorenzo continued quietly, voice trembling but steady, “maybe even before that… I began to see past what other people wanted to see. And I began to see you. Just you. And I loved what I saw. Those feelings have only gotten stronger with time.”

You blinked up at him, your fingers curling lightly into the sleeve of his coat. “Really?” The question came out small, almost childlike, as if you were afraid to believe it.

“Yes.” His answer was immediate, certain, “And I don’t think what you said that day was true.”

Your brows furrowed, “When I said what?”

“That the reason the Veela appeal doesn’t work on your soulmate is to protect them from it.” He drew in a shaky breath, thumb still tracing slow circles against your skin, “I think… it’s the opposite. I think it’s so that, when I did fall in love with you, you’d know. You’d know it wasn’t because of your bloody appeal but because of you.” His voice cracked softly on the last word, and his eyes burned into yours, fierce and unflinching.

“Because I’m not in love with the qualities everyone else can see.” His other hand rose to cradle the back of your neck, pulling you infinitesimally closer, “I see you. All of you. And I love you more because of it.”

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t speak. The room seemed to shrink to just the two of you—the scent of rain still clinging to his coat, the muted glow of the hallway lamp casting soft shadows across his face. His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your cheeks, as if afraid you might vanish the moment he let go.

Your chest heaved with a sob, and you collapsed against him, shuddering uncontrollably. Lorenzo wrapped you tightly in his arms, holding you as you cried and wailed, the sound raw and unrestrained. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, murmuring against your hair, wiping away each tear with painstaking care. Every droplet he caught felt like a confession, a promise that he was here, that he wasn’t going anywhere.

His face twisted into a sorrowful, yet tender, smile. He hated that he had ever been part of the reason for this pain, that his own doubts and fears had added to the weight on your shoulders. “I love you, (Y/N).” He whispered, voice breaking, almost reverent.

You sobbed harder, the words hitting you with a force that made your knees weak. The devotion in his voice, the first time you had ever received such genuine affection, filled you with such overwhelming joy, it felt heart-breaking.

You clung to him, to the warmth and the certainty of his embrace, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you believed you were exactly where you were meant to be.

The sobs began to ebb, leaving a raw, quivering quiet in their wake. Your forehead rested against his chest, breathing mingling, hearts hammering in synchrony. Lorenzo’s hands tightened around you, fingers threading into your hair and along your back as if anchoring you to him, to this moment, to the certainty of his love.

Then, slowly, almost hesitantly, his lips brushed yours. A whisper of a kiss at first, testing the boundaries, letting you respond—or pull away. But you didn’t pull away. Instead, you tilted your head, pressing closer, letting the pent-up ache and longing of months spill into the contact.

The kiss deepened, desperate and unrestrained, a collision of relief, apology, and love. It was messy, imperfect, but painfully real, and it burned away the last of the fear and doubt that had clung to you for so long. Your hands found his shoulders, then his neck, holding him as tightly as he held you, as if letting go would undo everything.

When you finally broke apart for breath, your foreheads pressed together, eyes wet but shining, Lorenzo’s voice was a low, trembling murmur, "Do you...like the flowers?"

You managed a shaky laugh, resting your hands on his chest, "I love them, Enzo. Almost as much as I love you."

***

Bonus:

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning energy—floating candles casting golden light across the long tables, the scent of fresh pastries mingling with the crisp autumn air. You were perched on your usual bench, a steaming cup of tea cradled between your hands, when a small, neatly wrapped package slid across the table in front of you.

You blinked in surprise. “From my mom,” You murmured, peeling back the ribbon. Inside was a delicate little jar, filled with dried petals that still smelled faintly of roses. “She made potpourri from the fallen petals of the rose bush you gave me,” You explained softly, eyes flicking to Lorenzo, who had just plopped down beside you.

He hummed thoughtfully, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face as he leaned closer, resting his chin on your shoulder and taking a deep inhale. Not of the rose petals, but of you.

"What's that?"

You smiled softly, glancing at the short note tucked into the jar, recognizing your mother’s handwriting and her messy French. “In a nutshell,” You say, “she says, ‘She has eyes in the back of her head.’ I think she’s surprised… she didn’t meet my dad until she was twenty-three.”

Surprised was an understatement. Your parents had gone for a brief grocery run when they had gotten caught in the rain and by the time they had returned you had been curled up on the couch with a boy you had claimed to be your soulmate.

Your father almost had a heart attack.

You turned over the note and laughed, recognizing your father's messy scrawl.

"If you ever bring that boy in my house again, I will bury him underneath that stupid rose bush in the backyard."

***

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@usmell4

Most muggleborns spend their lives running toward magic.

After living without it for the first eleven years of their lives, they’re all too eager to lose themselves in a world of spells and enchantments. They trade in double-decker buses and arbitrary chores for castles full of ghosts and a life that feels, at first, like ease. Once you’ve flown a broomstick or charmed a kettle to sing, it’s hard to imagine settling for anything less.

The journey usually only goes one way — from the world of the ordinary to the world of the impossible. Usually.

You moved back to the muggle world shortly after the war ended, wanting to put a great deal of distance between yourself and everything magical. There were a multitude of reasons for that.

To begin with, you wanted to be closer to your family. The war had loomed like a shadow over everything for so long, and when you came so close to losing them, it made you realize just how much you’d taken them for granted. You lived with them in your childhood home for a few months before moving into your own apartment only a few streets over.

Second, you were tired — bone-deep and soul-sick. After witnessing so much destruction, you longed for quiet. The wizarding world, despite its victory, was in a state of chaos. The Ministry was being rebuilt from the ground up, and though they had claimed, with great sympathy, that it was unfair the weight of the world had fallen on such young shoulders, they had no issue asking you — along with Harry, Ron, and Hermione — to serve under Ministry officials and aid in the capture of the remaining Death Eaters.

You had all agreed on one thing: the Ministry was not to be trusted. And with that shared understanding, the four of you parted ways.

Lastly — and most frustratingly — the muggle world was the only place you could escape the insipid reporters who seemed determined to mine every moment of the Golden Quartet’s lives for public consumption. It was another point the four of you agreed on: you wanted no part of the circus.

Now, only your closest friends had your address. Which is why you could only conclude that this was a complete. And utter. Coincidence.

You came home that Tuesday evening with a grocery bag in one hand and your wand tucked safely into your boot. The hallway smelled faintly of burnt toast and lemon-scented floor cleaner, the kind your landlord swore by but never quite masked the damp. You rounded the corner toward your door and stopped short.

There he was.

Mattheo Riddle, standing in front of the apartment next to yours, two battered suitcases at his feet and a flat key dangling uselessly from his hand.

He looked up at the exact moment you did. His fingers froze on the key. Your hand stilled on the strap of your bag.

And for a long, suspended moment, the two of you just stared.

You hadn’t seen him in years — not since the war — and yet time didn’t seem to matter. Recognition crashed through the hallway like a thunderclap. His curls were longer, face more drawn, shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes. But it was him. It was undeniably him.

Mattheo Riddle.

In your building.

The silence dragged on until it became unbearable. You were the first to blink.

"...Hi." You said, a little breathless, a little stunned.

He didn’t say anything right away, just looked at you like he was trying to convince himself you weren’t real. You couldn’t blame him.

"...You."

You raised a brow, "Me."

A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost unsure, "I didn’t know you lived here."

You shifted your groceries in your arms, "I didn’t know you lived here."

Another beat passed, longer this time. The key in his hand twitched like he’d forgotten it was there.

"I don’t," He said finally, "I mean… I just got the place."

You glanced at the door behind him — your door. The one you’d walked through a hundred times without incident. Now it felt like the threshold to something else entirely.

"Next door, huh?" You said, voice light but heart thudding.

He nodded, "Yeah. Lucky me."

You couldn’t tell if he meant it sarcastically, and you weren’t sure you wanted to know.

There was another pause. Not uncomfortable exactly — just thick with the weight of everything unspoken. You cleared your throat and stepped toward your own door, shifting your keys into your hand.

"Well," You said, half-turning toward him, "If you need help with anything, you know where to find me."

Mattheo blinked, like he hadn’t expected that — kindness, or maybe familiarity. Something flickered behind his eyes. He nodded.

"...Thanks." He said quietly.

You gave him a small nod before unlocking your door and slipping inside, heart hammering as you leaned against the back of it.

Mattheo Riddle. Living next door. You hadn't even unpacked your milk yet, and already the past was knocking.

The morning started like most others — quiet, a little rushed. You always managed to convince yourself you'd dress plain or skip makeup, severely underestimating how long it actually took to get ready. The apartment was practically hell to walk around in — you liked to sleep with the air conditioner blasting, which made getting out of bed feel like leaving heaven. You locked your door with one hand and slung your bag over your shoulder with the other, moving on instinct, drinking down a yogurt smoothie.

The building was still waking up — murmurs behind closed doors, the distant clink of pipes, a cat meowing two floors down. You padded down the stairs toward the lobby, head bowed slightly as you adjusted your coat, not expecting anyone to be around.

But then the front door swung open, and Mattheo Riddle stepped inside.

You almost didn’t recognize him at first. His hoodie was tied around his waist, leaving him in nothing but joggers and a damp black T-shirt clinging to his chest. His curls stuck to his forehead, chest still heaving from the run.

And then — he grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it up to wipe the sweat from his face.

You froze mid-step.

Because, well. There were abs. Sharp, defined, very real abs. The kind you’d only read about in romance novels or seen in movies — not the kind you expected to run into before 8 a.m. The curve of his ribs, the sharp V of his hips, the abs that could definitely grate cheese, the faint scars vanishing beneath the waistband of his joggers — you saw all of it, burned into your retinas before you could blink it away.

And then he saw you.

His eyes widened, and the shirt dropped instantly back into place.

"Oh." He said, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

"Morning." You said, trying your best to sound noncommittal.

"Morning." He said, a bit too quickly.

He glanced toward the door like he might bolt.

Instead, he stepped aside and held it open for you.

"Thanks." You said, quietly.

He nodded, still flustered, eyes flicking down then back up like he wasn’t sure where to look.

You stepped into the sunlight and crossed the lot toward your car, trying hard not to think about the abs. Not to think about the sweat. Not to think about the way your heart had momentarily leapt into your throat like it had no business being there.

God, you were such a teenager sometimes.

Behind you, the door clicked shut.

You grabbed the mail like you always did — a quick swipe from the box in the lobby before you headed back upstairs. Most days it was bills, junk flyers, brochures. Nothing worth more than a glance.

But tonight, when you finally dumped the envelopes onto your kitchen counter, your fingers froze.

There, on top of the usual clutter, was a single letter that didn’t belong.

The paper was thick and creamy, the kind that whispered wealth and importance. The edges were hand-cut, the ink flowed in perfect, curling calligraphy, and the wax seal stamped firmly with the unmistakable Malfoy family crest glinted in the kitchen light.

You didn’t have to open it to know who it was for.

Your address was written there, clearly a mistake, but following it was the name Mattheo Riddle. Your fingers traced over the letters without realizing.

You stared at it, thumb brushing over the smooth paper as a knot twisted in your stomach.

Do you knock on his door? Drop it in the mail slot and pretend it was an accident? It felt like less work to just walk over and hand it to him — and honestly, less weird.

You grabbed your coat and stepped out, the letter folded carefully in your hand.

When you reached his door, your knuckles hovered for a moment before you finally rapped softly.

The door opened a crack almost immediately.

He was surprised to see you. Actually, it seemed like he wasn’t expecting any guests, considering the way he was clutching his wand with a grip that almost turned his knuckles white at his side. You tried not to hold it against him. After all, you had been exactly the same during the first couple months of living there. You had cast protection charms and wards over your parents’ house like a crazy lady. Even the slightest noise woke you, and you’d wake up in a cold sweat each night.

However, you definitely felt better the second he noticed it was you — the tension melted from his body.

You held out the letter, voice low.

“It was in my mail. Thought you should have it.”

He blinked, taking it with a slow nod.

“Thanks.” He said quietly.

You hesitated, then added, “Accident, I swear.”

He gave a small, dry chuckle.

“Don’t worry.” He said, lifting his eyes from the letter and back to you, "Thank you."

The door shut softly.

It happened three nights later.

You were curled up on the couch in mismatched pajamas, hoodie half-zipped and a blanket tangled around your legs. A sitcom rerun flickered on the TV, but you weren’t really watching — just letting it hum in the background while your tea cooled on the coffee table.

Then came the knock.

You paused mid-sip.

Another knock. Gentle, hesitant. Like whoever it was had seriously debated whether to even bother.

You padded to the door and opened it — just a crack — and, of course, there he was.

Mattheo.

Hair a mess in a way that still looked unfairly attractive, a tight compression shirt that honestly made you embarrassed on behalf of all womankind, and a bashful-but-trying-hard-to-look-nonchalant expression on his face. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched, like he didn’t want to be there but had talked himself into it anyway.

"…Hey." He said, voice low, like it felt too loud in your quiet hallway.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised, "Hey."

"I, um…" He shifted awkwardly. One foot stepped back, then forward again, like he couldn’t decide whether to flee or stay. It was incredibly unlike him, to the point that it made you concerned, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure?" You said, cautiously.

A pause. He looked genuinely tortured.

Then, finally:

"How do I use the microwave?"

You stared at him.

He rushed to add, "I asked the landlord. I swear I did. There’s just… so many buttons. I don’t know what half of them do. This is the fifth time this week my meal is half cold and half hot and I don’t know what else to do because every time I use magic in that damned apartment, all the other technology freaks the fuck out."

You blinked.

That was… the most you’d ever heard him speak.

And not just speak — ramble. Rushed and impulsive, words tumbling out too fast for him to rein in. It felt squirrelly in a way that didn’t fit the boy you remembered from school. Back then, he always had that cocky, relaxed smile, the one that lingered too long and made people nervous. When it wasn’t that, it was fury — sharp and volatile. You’d seen enough of both expressions to find this new one strange.

A part of you almost felt bad. Clearly, the Muggle world wasn’t treating him kindly. And the fact that he was asking you for help — considering how often your friends used to butt heads with his back at Hogwarts — well. That had to sting his pride.

Still, you’d both been on the same side by the end of the war. So you supposed you could let bygones be bygones.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

You failed.

"Sorry," You said, half behind your hand, "It’s just—"

"No, no, go ahead." He said, dryly.

That only made it worse.

You opened the door wider, grabbing your keys and forgoing slippers since you were just walking a few feet to his place anyway, still smiling, "Alright. Lemme see."

His apartment looked almost identical to yours — same layout, same creaky floorboard just inside the threshold — but it felt different. Dimmer. Colder. Like someone was borrowing the space rather than living in it.

The walls were bare, not a single photo or poster in sight. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and something herbal, like spellwork left to linger. A wand lay carelessly on the coffee table, half-tucked beneath a rolled-up Daily Prophet. Books and scrolls were stacked beside it in frighteningly neat piles, next to a tea mug that had clearly gone cold.

You followed him into the kitchen, where the microwave sat perched on the counter like an unwanted guest.

“So,” You said, stuffing your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, “What are we microwaving?”

He reached into a plastic bag and pulled out a sad-looking cup of ramen. The cheap kind. The kind your dad used to stress about every time he caught you eating it — full of sodium, he'd complain, and then buy you another six-pack the next week because he knew you liked the chicken flavor.

“This.” he said, like it was obvious.

You stared at the cup. Then at him. Then back at the cup.

“…You know you’re supposed to make the water hot first before putting the noodles in, right?”

He blinked at you, genuinely confused, “...Am I?”

You stepped forward, peeled back the foil lid with practiced fingers, and pointed at the fine print along the rim.

“The instructions are written right here.”

“They’re in Korean.” He muttered.

You paused. Then looked down. Then back at him.

“…Right.”

“I don’t know how to translate it without using a spell.”

You tilted your head, “Can’t you use your phone?”

He went quiet, eyes drifting away — not defensive, just… quiet. You immediately regretted the question. Of course he couldn’t. The man barely knew how to use a microwave. What were you expecting?

You looked back down at the sad little noodle cup, steam starting to curl from under the foil lid. Then around his kitchen — barren shelves, a half-stocked fridge, one lonely fork sitting in the drying rack like it had never been part of a set.

“Is this what you’ve been eating all week?” You asked slowly, “Badly cooked noodles?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t exactly the answer… but also kind of was.

“They’re not that bad.” He said, avoiding your eyes.

He was still quiet.

“If you’re gonna live off this stuff,” You said, softer now, “You should at least dress it up a little. Toss in an egg. Use bone broth instead of water. Add some greens. Carrots, spinach. Leftover meat, if you’ve got it.”

He tilted his head, brows drawing together slightly like you’d just introduced him to an entirely new concept.

“Right,” He said, “Of course. Bone broth.”

You squinted at him, “Have you… eaten anything not made in this cup since you moved in?”

He hesitated.

Which was answer enough.

You sighed, slow and through your nose, gaze drifting back to the microwave, then to him.

You shouldn’t push.

You knew that.

He hadn’t let you in for tea. He hadn’t sat you down and started talking about his life. He’d asked for help with one tiny thing — and even that probably took more effort than he’d admit. If you offered more… would he take it badly? Would he realize he’d already slipped up just by letting you in this far? Would he shut down, retreat, snap the door shut like none of this ever happened?

Maybe. Probably.

You wouldn’t risk it.

But gods, when you looked at that flavorless brick of noodles, and the silence that filled his apartment like a second layer of drywall, and that one fork drying on its own…

You just couldn’t help but feel bad.

“Next time you’re at the store,” You started, then paused — glanced again at the sad little cup on the counter, then back at him.

Actually… screw it.

“…Forget that,” You said instead, keeping your voice light, casual, like it wasn’t a big deal, “I’ve got some stuff in my fridge. Eggs, some spinach, maybe a little leftover rotisserie chicken. Won’t take long.”

He looked at you. Not startled, exactly — but something flickered behind his eyes, like he hadn’t expected the offer. Like he wasn’t sure why you’d make it. Like maybe he didn’t think he deserved it.

“You don’t have to do that.” He said quickly, but it didn’t come out sharp. Just automatic. Defensive, out of habit.

You shrugged, already halfway to the door.

“Just give me a sec,” You said, throwing him a quick smile, “Stay here. Don’t burn the noodles.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t stop you, either.

And that, you figured, was enough.

You came back five minutes later, juggling a small pot containing a couple of eggs, a container of broth, a Ziploc bag of spinach, and a pair of chopsticks you’d swiped from your drawer on the way out. The pot knocked softly against your knee as you nudged the door open with your elbow.

Mattheo blinked at you from the kitchen, clearly still not convinced this was real.

“You really didn’t have to do that.” He said, stepping aside as you brushed past him.

“I know,” You said breezily, already unloading your arms onto the counter, “But I’m doing it anyway.”

He opened his mouth — probably to protest again — but you cut him off with a look. Not sharp, just firm.

“I’m not trying to invade your kitchen or anything,” You added, fiddling with the pot lid, “But that sad little cup deserves better. And you kind of looked like you were about to eat it dry.”

“I wasn’t.” He muttered.

You filled the pot with the bone broth and placed it on the stove, clicking the burner on with practiced ease, "Mm-hm.”

He exhaled a short, reluctant laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “You’re really doing this?”

“If it helps, I’m not being nice,” You said, half-smiling, “I haven’t eaten dinner yet. So if you want to make it fair, give me a bowl too.”

That caught him off guard. He paused, then nodded once, slow and quiet.

“…Alright. Deal.”

You tried not to smile too much as he handed you another cup of ramen from the cabinet. It was chipped at the rim and slightly too small, but it would do. You emptied both noodle cakes into the pot, swapped the water for broth, and got to work, talking him through it as casually as you could.

“You wanna add the spinach last,” You explained, stirring gently, “It cooks fast. And I like cracking the egg straight in — makes the broth thicker. But if you’d rather boil it on the side and slice it, that works too.”

He watched you carefully — not just your hands, but your face, your posture, the way you moved around like you weren’t nervous to take up space in his kitchen. Like you belonged. Like you didn’t find this strange at all.

“Why are you helping me?” He asked quietly.

You looked up from the pot, letting the corner of your mouth tug up just slightly.

“Because,” You said, “I’m very hungry.”

That earned a real smile. Small. Barely there. But real.

“…Thanks.” He said after a beat.

You shrugged, “Don’t thank me till you taste it.”

When you finally passed him a bowl — warm, fragrant, with steam curling gently over the rim — he stared at it like it was more than just dinner. Like it meant something. Like maybe you did.

You sat beside him at the small kitchen table, your shoulder brushing his for a moment before you settled back.

Not quite friends. Not yet. But maybe something was beginning.

You stood in front of his door again, two days later, staring at the worn wood like it might open on its own and save you the trouble.

In your hands was a small Tupperware container — the clear kind, fogged at the edges from the warmth still trapped inside. A generous slice of cake sat inside, a little dented from the walk up and decorated with frankly ridiculous neon frosting. The plastic lid was smudged with your fingerprints from how tightly you’d been gripping it, like maybe it would give you some courage if you just held on long enough.

You’d already knocked three times in your head. Once with your actual hand. And still — no follow-through.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, mumbling under your breath like a lunatic, “Okay, just leave it at the door, ring the bell, run. Not that serious. Not weird. It’s cake. Everyone likes cake. It’s not a big deal. You’re not weird. This is normal. People bring food to people. People are nice. You’re being nice.”

Your fingers twitched toward the doorbell again — and then froze halfway.

“…Unless it’s weird. Maybe it’s weird. Maybe—”

“Can I help you?”

You jumped. Hard.

The container nearly slipped from your hands as you turned — and there he was. Mattheo. Just a few feet away, keys in hand, dark curls a little damp like he’d just come in from the rain. His brows were pulled slightly together, his voice caught somewhere between confusion and caution.

Not quite hostile. But not welcoming either.

“Oh—hi,” You said, voice a little too high, a little too bright, “I was just…”

He looked at you. Then at the Tupperware. Then back again.

You cleared your throat and held the container out between you like it might protect you both from what you weren’t saying. A peace offering. A bribe. A white flag covered in blue frosting.

“I thought you might like this.” You said, trying your best to sound casual, “It’s… cake.”

He didn’t take it.

His expression shifted — cooled, hardened, like a door slamming shut behind his eyes. His voice dropped, quiet and clipped.

“You don’t have to pity me.”

The words landed like a slap.

You blinked, “What?”

“I’m not some sad project,” He said, jaw tight, “You don’t have to keep showing up like this. I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your charity.”

It hit you then — not just what he said, but what he meant.

The defensiveness wasn’t about you. Not really. It was about the way he saw himself. The walls he'd spent years building around the idea that maybe he didn't deserve care. That if someone reached for him, they must want something in return — or worse, they must be trying to fix him. To mold him into something less complicated. Less dark. Less him.

You didn’t look away.

Your voice dropped to something softer. Something honest.

“Mattheo… it’s just cake. There are no strings.”

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you. Like he was trying to see through the frosting to the catch hidden underneath. You held his gaze anyway.

“I got it from work.” You added, gentler now, “And I don’t like eating dessert alone.”

That gave him pause. A flicker of something — uncertainty, maybe — passed across his face.

Then, finally, he let out a quiet sigh, brushing past you to the door.

“…Alright.” He muttered, unlocking it, “Fine. Come in.”

You followed him inside, your heart thudding in your chest like you’d just sprinted through a battlefield and not… offered someone cake.

The apartment was exactly as you remembered. Same dim lighting. Same scuffed floors. Same silence that felt like it had weight. You stepped into the small kitchen, placed the container gently on the table like it was something fragile, and cracked the lid open with a soft pop.

Blue frosting beamed up at you — cheerful and absurd — despite the fact that the image was slightly smushed from the walk. The cartoon dog grinning from the top of the cake looked like it had just burst into song, paws raised in eternal celebration.

Mattheo squinted at it like it was a piece of contemporary art meant to make him think deeper.

“…The fuck is that?”

You grinned, “That would be a talking dingo.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

You gestured to the cake, “From this Australian cartoon called Bluey. The kids are obsessed.”

His expression didn’t change, “You got this from… kids?”

“I work at a kindergarten/” You said, already crossing to the drying rack and pulling out two mismatched forks like you lived there, “One of the kids had a birthday today. He got Bluey — obviously. This is the leftover slice of Bluey’s mom. Or aunt. Or whatever. She didn’t make the cut.”

Mattheo blinked at you like you’d just casually confessed to smuggling illegal potions across the border.

“You work with children?”

“Yup.”

“…Why?”

You snorted, handing him a fork, “Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” He said, catching the fork with a nod of thanks, “I just— You could’ve done anything. Back at Hogwarts, you talked about becoming an Auror, didn’t you? Top of the class in Defense. You could’ve had your pick of the Ministry. What changed?”

Your smile faltered.

Your gaze lowered to the cake, the blue frosting suddenly too bright.

“A lot has changed, Mattheo.” You said quietly.

When you looked up again, your eyes met his — and something passed between you. Something that had the magic that was interwoven through every single fiber of his body begin to vibrate and reach for you.

It was lonely in muggle London. Finally, he had someone who understood. The war. The fallout. The ache in your bones that hadn’t quite gone away.

“You know that better than anyone.”

There was a moment where he looked at you differently. Like he was seeing you again for the first time. Not as the student he used to know. Not as his overly hospitable neighbour. But as someone scarred and soft in all the same places he was.

You didn’t touch him. But part of you wanted to. Wanted to reach across the space between you and tell him about yourself. Tell him everything.

Instead, you shrugged, trying to find your voice again.

“I’m not really qualified or anything.” You said, softer now, “But my mum used to teach there. She still has some connections. Put in a good word for me when I needed work. And apparently my talent for counter-curses means nothing next to my ability to recite Five Little Ducks from memory.”

He huffed out a laugh — quiet and unexpected — through his nose. It wasn’t much. But it was something.

You sat together at the small kitchen table, forks in hand, slowly dismantling the slice of cake like it might bite back. You felt a small pang of guilt as Bluey’s mom lost her frosted ears — may she rest in peace — but if there was one thing you’d learned about toddler birthday cakes, it was that they were criminally delicious.

Mattheo didn’t say much. Just watched you with careful eyes, taking small, cautious bites like he wasn’t used to sharing anything — not food, not silence, not company.

You didn’t fill the quiet. You let it settle.

It was nearly two in the morning when you heard it.

A dull thud, followed by the sharp crack of something hitting the floor — hard. Then silence. Then a low, ragged sound that didn’t sound like words at all.

You sat up in bed, heart already pounding.

Your apartment was quiet, cloaked in darkness and long, familiar shadows — but the noise hadn’t come from within your own space.

It had come from next door.

From Mattheo’s.

You hesitated, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath your bare feet. You waited, listening, willing the silence to stay. But then it came again.

A heavy scrape. A crash. The sound of something shattering.

You didn’t think. You just grabbed your wand.

The hallway outside was dim, washed in the weak amber glow of the sconces that never quite worked right. His door was slightly ajar. Not wide — but not locked, either.

You raised your hand, knuckles grazing the wood.

“Mattheo?” You called softly.

No answer.

“Mattheo, it’s me—are you okay?”

Still nothing. Just the same jagged, uneven breathing. Fast. Erratic. Distant.

You glanced down at the doorknob.

“Alohomora.” You whispered, tapping the brass with the tip of your wand.

The latch clicked open.

You stepped inside quietly, careful not to make too much noise. The apartment was dark, save for the silver wash of streetlight spilling through the blinds. The glow cut harsh lines across the floor and furniture, shadow and light slicing the room in half.

And there — crouched beside the overturned coffee table — was Mattheo.

His back was to you. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat. His shoulders trembled with barely-contained tension. A mug lay shattered nearby, and his wand was discarded, half-buried under a scattered pile of scrolls. His hands were tangled in his hair, gripping at his scalp like he was trying to hold something in — or hold something out.

He didn’t see you come in.

“Hey,” You said gently, not stepping closer, “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

No response.

His whole body was wound tight, like a live wire — still in the middle of something he hadn’t escaped yet. Like he’d fallen asleep on a battlefield and hadn’t managed to wake up.

You didn’t cross the room. Not yet.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” You added, softer, “I just… heard something. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly — like he was dragging himself back into his body inch by inch — Mattheo turned his head.

His eyes met yours.

At first, they were wild. Unfocused. Distant. Then came recognition — flickering and faint. And then, quickly after, the crash of shame.

He looked away.

“Shit,” He muttered, voice hoarse, “I’m fine. It’s fine. Sorry to wake you. You should go back.”

But you didn’t move.

You stepped forward — quietly, carefully — crouching just far enough away not to crowd him, but close enough to be within reach.

“Are you alright?” You asked, voice calm and low, “Were you asleep?”

He let out a bitter laugh — short and flat, “That wasn’t sleep.”

You waited.

His hands had fallen to his lap. You could see now that his knuckles were raw and red, scraped open from something — maybe the wall, maybe the floor, maybe just the way he fought his own mind.

You nodded toward the couch, “Do you want to sit down?”

He didn’t answer, but after a beat, he pushed himself to his feet. Stiff. Tired. Like his body had only just realized it could stop fighting.

You followed him.

He collapsed onto the cushions like his bones had turned to dust. You sat beside him, not touching, not speaking, not offering false comfort.

Just… there.

He dragged a hand down his face. Then again. Then let it fall, limp, into his lap.

“It’s not a big deal,” He muttered, “It happens. Has for years.”

You looked at him.

“I know,” You said quietly, “I get them too.”

He stilled.

His eyes flicked to you — surprised. Like he hadn’t expected that from you. Like he couldn’t quite picture it.

“Still doesn’t make it less shitty.” You added.

He let out a sound — half a breath, half a scoff. Not quite a laugh. But not nothing.

“I hate it,” He said, barely above a whisper, “I wake up and it’s like I’m still there. Like it never ended. The smoke, the screaming — I know it’s not real, but my body doesn’t. It reacts. It always reacts.”

He swallowed.

“It’s not even always the same dream. Sometimes it’s the castle. Sometimes it’s… worse. Places I don’t talk about. Places I’ve never told anyone about.”

His voice cracked at the end. You didn’t flinch.

You just curled your knees beneath you, watching your fingers.

“My first week here,” You said softly, “I didn’t sleep at all. I warded the apartment every night. Then I’d wake up at three in the morning and run to my parents’ house just to check their wards. I think I cast every protection charm in existence. I was so convinced… if I let my guard down, even for a second…”

You trailed off. The silence filled in the rest.

Mattheo stared at you. Not in judgment. Just… listening. Like he couldn’t believe someone else carried the same weight.

You — the girl from the Golden Quartet. The one who helped end it. Who came back. Who rebuilt.

But not unscathed.

He remembered what Bellatrix had done to you. What you’d endured. What you’d lost.

And he thought — maybe for the first time — that you’d suffered just as deeply. That you understood.

You glanced up at him again. He didn’t look away.

“Do you want me to set up a few wards?” You asked, “They won’t fix anything, but they help. And I can teach you how to maintain them. Though,” You added with a tired smile, “it’ll probably be harder for me to break in next time.”

That got the faintest twitch of his mouth.

Almost a smile. Almost.

Another long pause.

Then—

“…Just stay.”

The words were barely there. Soft. Uncertain.

But they were enough.

You nodded.

So you stayed.

The silence between you changed — not heavy anymore. Just quiet. Settling.

He leaned back against the cushions, body slowly unwinding, like his nervous system was finally catching up to the fact that he was safe. His eyes drifted halfway shut, breath finally starting to even out.

Eventually, his fingers brushed yours — faint, hesitant, barely even a touch.

You didn’t move.

And neither did he.

Mattheo had come down to check his mailbox like he always did on Saturday mornings—hood up, hair messy, hoodie zipped to his chin—when a voice stopped him mid-turn.

“Flat 2A, yeah?”

He looked up. There was a man squinting at the mailboxes, arms full of grocery bags, car keys dangling from his pinky. He looked vaguely familiar.

“…Yeah?” Mattheo said carefully.

The man nodded to the box beside his, “My daughter’s next door. Flat 2B.”

Mattheo straightened slightly, “Right. You must be Mr. (L/N).”

“You know her?”

“We went to school together,” Mattheo replied, keeping it vague in the safest way possible.

Mr. (L/N) gave him a long, assessing look—longer than was comfortable—then smiled, like he’d just figured something out.

“So you’re special. Like her.”

Mattheo froze, “…Sorry?”

“You know,” The man waved a hand loosely, “special. One of them. Don’t worry—I’ve known for years. Her mum cried when the letter came. I built her a wand stand once. Terrible thing. Lopsided.”

Mattheo blinked. Once. Twice.

Before he could plan an escape—

“Be a good lad,” Your father said cheerfully, already turning toward the exit, “and help me bring these upstairs. (Y/N)’s mum went overboard at the farmer’s market again. Wouldn’t be surprised if we had half of Surrey in the boot.”

“…What?”

“Come give us a hand, will you? These boxes aren’t gonna levitate themselves—ha! Kidding. Muggle joke. Don’t tell your lot I made it.”

Mattheo stood there, stunned, until your dad clapped him on the back like they were old mates, “You’ve got good arms. We’ll be done in no time.”

And then, without ceremony, your dad looped an arm through his and dragged him outside.

*

“So what do you do, son?” Your dad asked as they hauled bags back up the building stairs.

“Uh… I’m not really doing anything right now.”

“That’s what your twenties are for! Finding yourself. I worked two jobs at your age. One time, my mate Gary and I—ah, Gary, poor bastard, divorced now—anyway, we moved an entire washing machine up six flights with nothing but a strap and willpower.”

Mattheo, sweating slightly, nodded, “…Right.”

“Builds character.” Your dad said, with the authority of someone who’s definitely broken a toe doing that. Then, after a beat, “You know, life’s a lot like grocery shopping.”

Mattheo glanced down at the bag digging into his arm, “Is it.”

“You can make a list, plan every aisle, but there’s always something missing when you get home.”

“…Profound.”

“Exactly! You’re a good listener. Ever think about dating my daughter?”

Mattheo nearly dropped the watermelon.

“What?!”

“I’m just saying,” Your dad shrugged, utterly unbothered, “you’ve got kind eyes and steady hands. Plus you said you went to school together. Shared history’s a good foundation.”

You were halfway through folding laundry when the front door opened. You turned just in time to see your father stroll in, humming cheerfully—followed by Mattheo, who looked like he’d been inducted into a cult against his will.

You blinked, “What—? What is going on? Why is he here?”

“Hi.” Mattheo said, his voice flat with disbelief.

“He helped me carry the groceries,” Your dad said proudly, unloading bags onto the counter, “Nice boy. Good biceps.”

“…What?”

“Anyway,” Your dad continued, turning back to Mattheo, “You’re coming for dinner, obviously. I’ll ask her mum to make the lasagna. The lasagna. The one she makes when she likes someone.”

“That’s really not necessary.” Mattheo started, clearly panicked, but your dad was already on his phone. “She’ll be thrilled. You like cheese, don’t you?”

Mattheo looked at you helplessly. You just raised an eyebrow. “Well? Do you like cheese?”

“…I mean, yeah?”

“There you go.” Your dad clapped him on the back again, then started pushing jars toward him, “You should take some of these groceries, son. A growing boy needs nutrients.”

Your dad was saying, completely in earnest now as he sorted bags by category on your kitchen counter, “You eat enough protein? You look like you work out. What’s your egg intake?”

Mattheo opened his mouth, then shut it again. He glanced at you like please save me.

You looked up at the ceiling, eyes wide.

“Dad,” You said slowly, like approaching a landmine, “What is happening right now?”

“Nothing’s happening, sweetheart,” He said innocently, stacking apples with the precision of a man who’d definitely done this before, “Just making conversation. Mattheo here’s a lovely young man.”

“You’ve known him for twenty minutes.”

“And already I’ve seen enough. Polite, helpful, didn’t even grumble once when I handed him a forty-pound watermelon.”

Mattheo spoke up in a way that was far too timid for him, “I—kind of grumbled.”

“See?” Your dad grinned like he’d just won the lottery, “Humble, too. I want a son-in-law like that.”

“Dad!” You exclaimed, mortified.

Mattheo shifted awkwardly, cheeks flushed, feeling like he’d accidentally walked into a reality show.

“What? I’m not saying I want Mattheo to be my son-in-law, I’m saying I wouldn’t mind if I had a son-in-law like Mattheo. Two completely separate things, my dear.” Your dad said with mock innocence, flouncing around the room as he put away groceries, but kept two of everything right there on the counter instead of where they belonged.

“Now Mattheo, do you like red wine or white? I’ll make sure to have a bottle stocked for you when you come over.”

“Come over?” You echoed, cheeks heating up.

“Of course! He’s coming over for dinner tonight, are you not?”

Mattheo swallowed, clearly overwhelmed but trying to hide it behind a thin smile.

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Mattheo said quickly, forcing a polite smile, “I was planning to meet my friends tonight.” A lie. A very hopeful lie.

Your dad didn’t miss a beat. “Then bring your friends as well! Oh, we’ll have a jolly good time—all these blokes under one roof. I’ll ask (Y/N)’s brother to bring a pack of beers, something to liven the old boys up.” He exclaimed, practically floating around the kitchen like a whirlwind of enthusiasm.

“Dad!” You finally exclaimed, trying to snap him out of his party-planning trance.

He stopped and turned, eyes twinkling as he looked at Mattheo’s uncomfortable face.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my dear boy,” He said, voice suddenly gentle, “Do you not drink? Very good habit, you know.”

Mattheo swallowed, unsure how to respond.

“That’s okay,” Your dad went on, waving it off like it was no big deal, “My wife would much prefer a boy with good habits for our (Y/N), anyway.”

You groaned and hid your face in your hands, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks, “Dad, please. Stop.”

Finally done messing about your kitchen, your dad began loading the pairs of items he’d left on the counter into one of the grocery boxes.

“There you go, son,” He said, handing the box to Mattheo with a warm, steady smile, “This should keep your fridge stocked for at least another week or two. If you don’t know what to do with any of it, just run down to my house. I’d be happy to whip up something for you to eat.”

Mattheo stared at the carton of food in his hands.

No one had ever offered him that before. Not like this. Not so openly, so simply, so… abundantly. His own father had been a distant shadow in his memories, a figure he’d learned to avoid rather than seek. There was no warmth, no easy kindness like this.

For a moment, something twisted quietly inside Mattheo — a mix of jealousy and something else, something heavier he didn’t quite want to name. You’d grown up with a dad who knew how to care, who showed it. He had thought once that having Muggle parents was the worst thing in the world, but now, holding that box, surrounded by your dad’s easy affection, he wasn’t so sure.

He looked up, meeting your dad’s hopeful gaze.

“Okay,” Mattheo said quietly, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I’ll come for dinner.”

Your dad’s grin widened, and you felt a little flutter in your chest as the moment settled between all of you—unexpected, but maybe exactly what was needed.

After what felt like hours of your dad chatting nonstop, finally, he was out the door, humming some old tune as he disappeared down the hallway. You shut the door behind him and let out a long breath, cheeks still flushed with embarrassment.

Turning to Mattheo, you ran a hand through your hair nervously. “I’m really sorry about him,” You said quickly, eyes darting away, “He can be... a lot. You don’t have to come for dinner, honestly. He was just being nice—he does that with pretty much everyone, like some sort of overly friendly hostage negotiator.”

Mattheo shifted his weight, his expression unreadable but somehow softer than usual. “I’m aware.” He said dryly, voice calm and measured, the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

You bit your lip, “Still, I don’t want you to feel like you have to. I know it’s kind of sudden and probably... weird.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and you caught a flicker in his eyes — something quieter, warmer, even if his face didn’t fully show it. “I don’t mind,” He said simply, voice low, “It’s… nice to be invited.”

You blinked, surprised, “Really?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal, but his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, “It’s rare. People don’t do that for me.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretches with unspoken things, and you realized that beneath all that aloofness, he wanted something like this. Something normal. Something warm.

You smiled gently, “Well, then. Dinner it is. And maybe next time you can teach my dad a thing or two about being subtle.”

Mattheo’s smirk finally turned into a half-smile, “Maybe.”

You felt your heart loosen just a bit, the awkwardness fading into something quieter, something real.

The hallway was still warm from dinner. You walked beside Mattheo, both of you quiet in that way people get after a full meal and too many emotions — like the silence itself had thickened into something gentle.

He had leftovers tucked under one arm, the lasagna carefully packed in a Tupperware with foil pressed down like your mum had sworn it would keep the flavour in, darling. He hadn’t said much since your dad’s final clap on the back and his booming, “Any friend of hers is a friend of mine, son!”

At his door, Mattheo hesitated, keys caught between his fingers.

You glanced at him.

He looked down at the container in his arms like it had grown heavier somehow, then back at you.

“…Your mum’s nice.”

You huffed a laugh, “Don’t get attached. She’s married to my dad.”

That pulled something from him — not one of those breathy, polite almost-laughs he gave people when they said something mildly amusing, but something real. Low and rough, surprised out of him like it had caught him off guard.

He shook his head, still smiling faintly, “Too bad.”

“She’s way out of your league, Riddle.” You replied easily.

“Speak for yourself — she’s the one who was trying to get me out of my pants.”

You choked, “Because she said you looked like you’d tripped over a kerb!”

“These,” He said, tugging lightly at the rip near his knee, “are meant to look like this.”

“There’s no harm in admitting you’re a bit clumsy, Matty.”

He let out a quiet snort, but still didn’t unlock the door. There was something tentative in the way he stood — like stepping inside would be an end to something soft he hadn’t realised he’d needed. Like he was holding on to the aftertaste of lasagna and warmth and your parents' terrible stories, trying to memorise what it felt like to belong.

The whole night, he hadn't felt like an outsider — not even like a guest. He’d just been there, part of the chaos. He’d argued with your brother over Quidditch stats, held up bits of your dad’s entertainment system while he hammered in the nails, and endured your mum fussing with the tear in his jeans. You’d realised halfway through that you could’ve used your wand to float the whole thing into place — but with Mattheo’s biceps straining against his sleeves, you’d decided to keep that to yourself.

Even now, you didn’t say anything. Just waited.

Finally, after a long pause, he shifted the Tupperware under one arm and turned the key, nudging the door open — but still not stepping through.

Then, like he hadn’t been debating it the entire walk up the stairs, he asked, casual as anything, “You wanna come in?”

You blinked, “Now?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly too aware of how the question had landed. “For a cuppa.” He added quickly. His voice cracked a little under the forced lightness.

You raised a brow, “Weren’t you just whining all the way up the stairs that you were too full to breathe?”

“It’s tea,” He said, trying for deadpan and failing miserably, “There’s always room for tea.”

You smiled softly, stepping past him into the familiar dimness of his flat, “I’d like that.”

He held the door a little longer to let you through — the smallest gesture, but deliberate. Inside, the flat smelled like warm laundry and whatever incense he’d been burning earlier — something herbal and clean that softened the edges of the silence.

You settled into the sofa, hands curled around a steaming mug. He passed you the sugar silently, like he already knew how you liked it.

“We have dinners like that every other week,” You said, voice low, relaxed, “You should come next time.”

Predictably, he started to refuse, “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t want to impose—”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His face had changed since the war. Thinner, maybe. Older in the eyes. But steadier, too. Calmer. There were fewer sharp edges — and maybe that was good. Maybe growing up had done what time always promises to do: carved the pain into shape.

Still, something tugged at your chest.

You both had grown up too fast. Lost too much, too young. Your rebellious teen years had disappeared the second you realised just how quickly your family could be taken from you. You’d watched people like Harry — and Mattheo — walk through fire alone, and you’d never forgotten it.

The war was brutal. There were nights when survival felt like a punishment, not a gift. But sometimes — like tonight — you caught a glimpse of who you’d become, and thought maybe it had made you into someone good.

You looked at Mattheo, still fiddling with the teabag in his mug like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, and wondered if he felt the same about himself.

He had been impulsive, emotional, too quick to lash out. And now? Now he was quieter. Softer around the edges. But part of you missed the fire in him — the cocky confidence, the recklessness. The way he used to speak like the whole world should listen.

You came out of the war a hero.

He came out as the son of the world’s greatest villain.

You had a family who loved you. Who accepted your world and stitched it into their own.

He had parents who only cared how he could serve theirs.

And despite everything — despite the fact that you were perhaps one of the only people alive who truly understood — you hadn’t lived equal lives. You had a family that loved you unconditionally. He had… expectations. Burdens.

“You wouldn’t be,” You said quietly, “My parents would really like it if you came again. And so would I.”

Mattheo’s stirring stopped.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just let the silence stretch — until it snapped.

“You don’t need to keep doing this, you know,” He said, voice tight, “I don’t know what you’re scared of, but I’m not going to off myself or host secret Death Eater meetings or whatever it is you think I’m doing alone up here.”

You blinked, caught off guard, “Mattheo—”

“Come on,” He said, rolling his eyes. “You keep checking in. Keep inviting me places. You think I don’t notice?”

You stared at him. And then, to his horror, you started to laugh. Soft and exasperated.

“Oh Godric. I wonder why I keep visiting my super attractive neighbour who’s been through the same traumas I have, who my parents clearly like and who actually laughs at my jokes. Truly a mystery.”

He froze, like you’d hit him with a hex, “Wait — you’re not saying you keep coming around because… because you like me?”

You blinked, smiling slowly, “Why? Can’t I?”

“You can’t,” He said immediately. Adamantly. Like it was law. “You should be with someone like Potter. Or Granger. Or — Merlin, even Weasley.”

You raised an eyebrow, “Harry’s basically my brother. Hermione’s dating Ron.”

“There’s more than one Weasley.” He offered, grasping at straws.

"Mattheo frankly I cannot think of anything worse than ending up related to Ron, Hermione and Harry."

Mattheo shrugged with faux innocence, swirling the teabag in his mug like he hadn’t just tried to sell you off to a different wizarding family, “I’m just saying… you could do better.”

You rolled your eyes, “Right. And what exactly would ‘better’ look like?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

You leaned forward, eyes glinting, “Go on. Tell me.”

Mattheo hesitated — the cocky response clearly right there on the tip of his tongue — but something in your expression stopped him short. Maybe it was the way you weren’t teasing anymore. Not really. You were waiting. Listening.

And when he spoke, his voice was low. Stripped bare.

“Someone like you. Someone who didn’t spend most of their life calling people like you a Mudblood,” He muttered, eyes fixed on the steam curling from his mug, “Someone who doesn’t make people reach for their wands the second they walk into a room.”

Your smile faded.

He didn’t look up, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I was. You know what I’ve done. I picked sides. I picked wrong.”

There was a long, quiet beat. The kind that carries too much weight.

Then you set your mug down gently on the table and said, “You were just a child, Mattheo.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, uncertain. Wary. Like he wanted to believe you, but didn’t dare.

“A child,” You repeated, firmer this time, “And your father was bloody Voldemort. Of course you were twisted up inside. Of course you were scared. But you’re not that kid anymore.”

“But you—” He started, but you cut him off.

“Don’t,” You said softly, “I’m not some symbol of bravery or some war hero people should look up to. I left the wizarding world precisely because of that. I didn’t want to be paraded around, painted in gold, turned into a symbol of light just because I happened to survive.”

He swallowed hard. His brows were drawn tight.

“There were so many people caught in that war,” You continued, voice trembling now, “People who didn’t get to pick sides. People like you, who had to follow the only path left open to them.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He looked away again, that familiar wall sliding into place — too fast, too familiar.

“Doesn’t change what I did,” He said, “Doesn’t mean I don’t deserve everything I get now.”

“You don’t,” You snapped, not angry at him — but at the world that had taught him to think like this, “And neither do they. Harry wouldn’t have survived if Narcissa Malfoy hadn’t lied to Voldemort, and now she’s rotting in Azkaban. Theo deflected a curse meant for McGonagall and he’s being shunned like a criminal. And me—”

You paused, eyes suddenly wet, voice quieter.

“I would’ve died that night in the manor,” You whispered, “if you hadn’t lied to Bellatrix.”

He flinched.

You stepped toward him, hands reaching up, gently cupping his cheeks. Forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Don’t you dare pretend like it didn’t matter,” You said, “I know what you’ve done. I know who you are.”

You swallowed, “The second you had the chance to choose, Mattheo, you chose right.”

Then you added, barely above a whisper, “And that’s why I like you.”

“Because I saved your life?”

You shook your head.

“No,” You breathed, “Because you’re not who they said you were. Because you’re a good man. Whether you believe it or not.”

Mattheo looked at you like he didn’t know whether to shatter or kiss you.

You cleared your throat, tried to pull yourself together. Tried not to let your voice break completely, “So… are you coming to dinner next week?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you. Really looked. Like the pieces of his past were still rearranging themselves in his mind — and for the first time, they weren’t sharp enough to cut.

“I want you there,” You said, softer now, “They do too. But mostly… I do.”

That undid something in him.

Slowly, his shoulders relaxed. The tension in his jaw eased. His eyes dropped for a second, and then met yours again.

And when he nodded — small, certain — it felt like something cracked open between you. Not in a way that broke, but in a way that finally let the light in.

“I’ll come.” He said.

You smiled and reached for his shirt, smoothing out imaginary creases as your fingers lingered just a second longer than they needed to.

“Good.” You murmured.

He caught your hand gently in his, eyes searching yours.

And for the first time in a very long time, he didn’t feel like someone clawing his way out of the darkness.

He felt seen. He felt chosen.

And maybe — just maybe — he was starting to believe he deserved that too.

Mattheo did come for dinner.

And then he came again. And again after that.

It wasn’t like you suddenly fell into each other’s arms or kissed under the kitchen light while your mum offered dessert. But something shifted — subtle, steady. Like a hinge finally oiled. Like the space between you both had always been there, and now you were finally choosing to fill it.

There were still jokes, still the sarcasm and dry glances and moments where he pretended not to be listening even though he definitely was. But the edges were softer. The glances lingered longer. The silences stopped feeling like things to be filled, and more like things to be shared.

You saw it in the way he sat closer to you now. The way his shoulder would brush yours and stay there. The way his laugh sounded warmer in your presence. The way he always saved you the last spoonful of something without having to be asked.

You hadn’t defined anything. But you were definitely getting closer.

Which is how, a few weeks later, you found yourself sprinting into his flat like you owned the place — because, well, you sort of had started to.

“Matty!” You called out breathlessly, not even glancing at the figure lounging on the sofa, “I need to borrow your leather jacket—where is it? Don’t say it’s in the laundry, I swear to Merlin—”

You didn’t wait for a response.

You kicked off your shoes, breezed past the living room, and charged straight for his bedroom, shouting, “Thanks, by the way! You’re the best!”

Already halfway through the hallway, you threw a hand up in vague acknowledgment and barrelled through the door.

Stopped dead in your tracks.

There he was.

Mattheo.

Fresh from the shower. Shirtless. Damp curls sticking to his forehead. A towel slung low on his hips. Drops of water still trailing down his chest, slow and traitorous.

You made a noise that might’ve been a word. Or a gasp. Or a whimper.

He blinked, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting company, holding a shirt in one hand like he’d frozen mid-movement.

“…Hi.” He said, entirely too casual for someone who was 90% naked.

You let out a squeak — an actual squeak — slapped a hand over your eyes, and spun around so fast you almost collided with the doorframe.

“Oh my Godric, I’m so sorry—I thought you were on the couch, you were on the couch two seconds ago, I swear, I just— I didn’t see anything—well, okay, I did, but I didn’t mean to—”

You opened the door.

Slammed it shut again.

Then leaned against it, face flaming, pulse racing.

And from the living room came a voice that was not Mattheo’s:

“Hi.”

You blinked. Turned slowly.

And there, entirely not naked, spoon in mouth and legs still kicked up on the sofa, was Theodore Nott — looking very amused.

He raised the spoon lazily, “Hey. You alright there?”

You blinked at him, brain rebooting, “Nott?”

“In the flesh,” He said, raising a spoon in salute, “Should I be offended you ran past me like I was invisible?”

“I—” You blinked, face aflame, “I thought you were Mattheo.”

“I gathered.” He went back to his cereal.

“I just needed to borrow his jacket!” You said quickly, heat still burning in your cheeks, “Maybe take outfit photos in his mirror.”

Theo raised an eyebrow, “You don’t have your own mirror?”

“My mirror has an antique bronze frame,” You replied flatly, “It doesn’t match the vibe.”

“Right,” He said, utterly unconvinced, returning to his cereal, “Didn’t realize you two were that close.”

You stilled.

You swallowed. How were you supposed to respond to that? Yes, you were close to Mattheo. Close enough to know just how he likes his tea. Close enough to keep biscuits in his cupboard that were only for you. But you'd never said anything out loud. There were no labels. No claims.

It would be kind of humiliating to say something only for Mattheo to come strolling out and be like, “Nah, she just lingers here like a stray cat I accidentally fed once.”

Before you could decide what to say, the bedroom door opened.

Mattheo stepped out, now mercifully dressed in faded black jeans and a plain white T-shirt — though you weren’t sure if that made things better or worse. He had your favourite leather jacket of his slung casually over one arm, and his damp curls clung to his forehead in soft, lazy waves. You were suddenly very grateful he'd decided to wear the jacket… if only so Theo wouldn’t catch you blatantly ogling his best mate’s biceps.

Mattheo just grinned and sauntered over, totally unbothered, and shook the jacket out with a single practiced flick before holding it open for you.

You slid your arms into the sleeves as he held it up, the worn leather warm and familiar, smelling faintly like his cologne — and maybe a little like that soap you'd seen in his shower that was inexplicably labelled dragon ash and sandalwood.

He adjusted the collar gently, his fingers brushing against the back of your neck for a beat longer than necessary, “Looks better on you anyway.”

You glanced up at him, and his eyes met yours — something unspoken passing between you, soft and real. Then, all at once, he stepped back, cleared his throat, and looked toward Theo.

Theo’s smile widened like a cat who’d found something much more interesting than his cereal. “So, just to clarify… what is this, then?” he asked, gesturing between the two of you, “Because if this isn’t dating, it’s the most suspiciously couple-y non-dating situation I’ve ever seen.”

Mattheo didn’t even hesitate, “It’s none of your business.”

“Ohhh,” Theo said, leaning back, “Which means yes.”

You flushed. Mattheo sighed like this was a discussion he’d already prepared for in his head and hated every second of.

Then, with the most casual tone imaginable, he said to you, “I’m heading out with the guys later. Might be home late.”

You nodded, adjusting the sleeves of the jacket, "Alright. Have fun. Stay safe."

He looked you over, your outfit clearly indicating that you were going out with your friends, "You too. Send me a Patronus when you get home."

You hummed, giving him a small smile, "I know the drill."

Theo raised a brow, “Right, definitely not dating.”

Mattheo gave him a lazy middle finger but didn't deny it and turned back to you, his tone softening just a touch, “You staying for a bit?”

“I just needed the jacket,” You said, trying not to smile, "My Uber's gonna be here any second."

"Right," He responded, raking his eyes over your figure, choosing to tuck your hair behind your ear, "Then I guess I'll see you later."

"I guess you will." You chuckled, before turning to his friend who was watching you both like it was his favourite show. Not that he would even know what a television was, "It was nice seeing you again, Theo. Let's have a drink one day and catch up."

He nodded, giving you a smirk that didn't drop until you had exited and he slid his eyes back to Mattheo, “So when’s the wedding?”

The pub was alive with the low hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional shout from the dartboard. Mattheo sat at the far end of the worn wooden table, surrounded by Draco, Theo, Enzo, and Blaise. Pints and half-empty bottles were scattered across the table like trophies from battles fought and survived.

“Mate,” Draco nudged him with an elbow, voice tinged with mock disbelief, “Why aren’t you drinking us under the table tonight? You usually drown whatever’s bothering you.”

Mattheo glanced at his nearly untouched glass of cider, fingers tapping restlessly on the rim. “Not in the mood.” He muttered, eyes flickering toward the window, where the night had deepened and the streetlights cast pools of gold on the pavement.

“Not like you,” Blaise teased, “Usually, you’d be three sheets to the wind by now.”

Enzo smirked, “Yeah, what gives? You okay, Riddle?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked toward the door, then the window, and back to the table, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the wood. He looked… distracted.

Theo, sitting next to Mattheo with a mischievous grin, leaned in, “Oh, it’s because our dear friend here is waiting on a Patronus.”

The others blinked. “Patronus?” Enzo repeated.

Theo nodded, barely able to keep a straight face, “Yes from his cute little neighbour. She’s supposed to send it when she gets home safe after a night out. Mattheo’s been scanning the streets like a bloodhound all evening.”

Theo leaned back with a sly grin, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “And the neighbour in question? Well, you’re all gonna love this—it's (L/N).”

Blaise nearly choked on his drink, “You’re joking.”

"In a classic tale of Romeo and Juliet, our dear Matty boy has found himself in love with the girl who literally killed his father."

"I'm not in love." Mattheo snapped but a car drove past, shining a light that looked too similar to a patronus and had his neck almost snapping in two in his effort to get a better look.

Enzo burst into laughter, "Oh, yeah, you're not in love, you absolute boob."

The knocking started faintly — not loud, but urgent. Sharp, clipped taps that cut through your dreams like a blade. You jolted upright, breath caught in your throat, blinking through the dark, tangled in your sheets like you’d been mid-battle instead of mid-dream.

It wasn’t that loud — but something in the rhythm of it pulled you from sleep like a hook behind the ribs.

You squinted at the clock. 03:17.

Groaning softly, you threw off the covers, feet hitting cold floorboards with a quiet thud. You reached for your wand automatically, the weight of it familiar in your palm, even as sleep still clung to you like cobwebs. The knocking came again — quicker now, more urgent.

You padded toward the front door, pulse starting to rise.

When you opened it — just a crack, just enough to see — the cold slammed into you. But it was nothing compared to what you saw standing there.

Theo Nott.

He looked like he’d run across London.

Hair wind-tossed. Chest heaving. Coat half-unbuttoned. His skin was pale, almost grey in the porchlight, and there was something feral in his eyes — panic, fury, fear, all twisted up into one tight, burning thread.

You stared, “Theo?”

His breath puffed in a sharp cloud, “It’s Mattheo.”

Your stomach dropped.

The door was open in seconds, and you grabbed his arm and yanked him inside before the words had even fully registered. It slammed shut behind him, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

“What happened?” You demanded, voice cracking now, “Is he hurt? Where is he?”

Theo didn’t answer immediately. He was pacing your living room like a caged thing, one hand knotted in his hair, the other clenched into a fist at his side.

“They arrested him.”

The air in the room turned cold.

Your voice came out as barely a whisper, “What?”

“Tonight. At the pub. We were all there — Blaise, Draco, Enzo. Just drinking. Laughing. Nothing serious. And then out of nowhere, the Aurors show up. Said there’d been reports. Wouldn’t say of what. Wouldn’t explain. They just—” His jaw tightened, “They just dragged him out.”

You stared, heart pounding, “For what?”

“Suspicion. Loitering. Someone said he ‘fit the description’ of a man acting odd in Knockturn Alley earlier that day — even though we’d been nowhere near there. One of the Aurors looked him dead in the face and said, ‘You know who you are.’ Like that was all the proof they needed.”

You sat down hard on the arm of your couch, breath punched from your lungs.

“He’s done nothing,” You said, “He hasn’t done anything—”

“They don’t care,” Theo snapped, suddenly furious again, “They see the name. They see the face. The bloody Mark. They don’t ask questions. They just act like he’s a ticking time bomb and they’re doing everyone a favour by locking him up before he explodes.”

You buried your face in your hands for a second, trying to breathe — trying to think, “Where is he now?”

“Ministry holding,” Theo said darkly, “They said they’ll process him in the morning. Until then, he’s ‘detained for questioning.’ Which we both know means they’ll keep him in a concrete cell all night and try to wear him down before anyone gets to him.”

You stood up suddenly, fury vibrating through your body.

Theo paused mid-pace to look at you.

“I know we’re not close,” He said, awkward again, “but I know you’re close to him. Closer than he lets on. And you—” He hesitated, “You’re friends with Potter. You’ve got… pull. People listen to you. I didn’t know who else to go to.”

But you were already pulling a jumper over your head, wand clenched in a white-knuckled grip. You barely heard him over the roar of your own blood in your ears.

“I’ll handle it,” You said, your voice low and shaking with rage, “But I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“Go to him. Now. Stay with him. Don’t let them bully him. Don’t let him say anything to anyone without a lawyer present. No comment. No statements. Not even what his bloody name is. Got it?”

Theo nodded, grim, “Got it.”

You followed him, stepping into your boots, wand ready. You didn’t feel sleepy anymore. You didn’t feel anything but hot, burning, righteous fury.

Because Mattheo had spent years trying to claw his way out of the shadow of his past. Years trying to prove that he wasn’t like him. That he wasn’t like them.

And now they’d dragged him back in — without a charge, without a reason, without a second thought.

This was why you left the wizarding world. Why you’d turned your back on the Ministry and its post-war morality circus. You’d fought in the war, bled in it, lost friends in it — and still they hadn’t learned.

Still they saw people like Mattheo Riddle as enemies, not survivors. Not victims of the same fear and violence that had nearly destroyed them all.

At the end of the day, the truth didn’t matter. Not as long as they were able to cram you painfully into whatever predisposed ideas they had.

The two of you raised your wands.

And in two cracks of displaced air, you were gone — vanishing into the night.

Both headed to two separate locations.

You were about to officially return to the wizarding world. And rain hell upon them. You were going to make them listen. You were going to make them pay.

The Ministry’s grand chamber felt colder than usual — or maybe it was just the weight of what was about to happen. Mattheo stood quietly beside you, hands clenched at his sides, eyes sharp but guarded. Harry, Ron, and Hermione flanked you, each radiating the same burning frustration.

You moved through the Ministry of Magic’s atrium like a hurricane. Paper memos paused mid-flight. Aurors stepped aside. One man even dropped his coffee.

Security tried to stop you at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’s doors.

They did not succeed.

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” You snapped, wand already glowing, “And I will.”

You shoved open the office doors of Minister Fudge so hard they banged against the walls. His aides leapt to their feet, startled. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t blink. Your eyes were locked on the man behind the desk — Cornelius Fudge, still wearing that smug little bowler hat, like he hadn’t spent the last decade proving he cared more about saving face than saving lives.

Fudge barely looked up, “Ah, the prodigal warriors return.”

You didn’t flinch. “Where is he?” You demanded, voice low but fierce, “Where is Mattheo Riddle?”

Fudge blinked, slightly surprised by your fury. Of course he wasn’t aware of just how close you both were — you could only assume he believed Mattheo wouldn’t be missed, or that those who did care about him wouldn’t have the power to do anything about it.

“He’s in custody. Being held for questioning. Suspicion of—”

Harry cut in, voice thick with disgust, “Suspicion of what, exactly? Because I saw the arrest report — and there’s absolutely nothing of value there.”

Hermione stepped forward, eyes blazing, “You hold a man without charge because of his name and history? That’s not justice — it’s persecution.”

Fudge arched a brow, calm, as you began to tremble with rage, “He’s being held for questioning. Surely even you understand the need for caution, considering his—”

“He defected,” Ron snapped, “He fought with us. He was on our side at the end of the war.”

“And how exactly would you know that?” Fudge folded his hands neatly, "You refused to give your account to the ministry after the war. Refused to cooperate with us."

You stared at him, disbelief rising like bile, “I fought in the war. I didn’t sit like a right old fart in an office and send children to do my job for me.”

That struck. His expression flickered. But he recovered quickly.

“You have no proof,” He said, “No statements. No witnesses. Nothing documented. Nothing official. Just your word, I suppose?”

Your jaw clenched.

And then, the heavy oak doors creaked open again behind you.

The final recipient of your frantic Patronus had arrived.

“I would hardly call my word ‘unofficial’.” Came a cool, clipped voice.

Every head turned.

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall stepped into the room like she owned it. Her tartan robes swirled around her ankles, her bun was tight, and her wand was already out — not drawn, just held. Like a promise.

“Headmistress.” Fudge said tightly.

“I am here,” She said, “because you are about to repeat the mistakes of your past. And I, for one, will not stand by and let it happen again.”

She turned to you with a brief, firm nod. Then addressed the room.

“Mattheo Riddle was present at the Battle of Hogwarts. He cast no Unforgivables. He struck down more Death Eaters than many fully trained Aurors. He aided in the evacuation of the Astronomy Tower. I can attest to this. I witnessed it myself.”

Fudge scoffed, “If you want to make a case, you need to conduct a hearing. Present evidence. Until then, Riddle remains in custody. This isn’t the proper procedure.”

“You’re right,” Hermione snapped, “Which is why you’ll release Mattheo now and arrange a hearing immediately — not weeks from now, not months. Until then, he walks free.”

You stepped forward, voice like steel, “I have a reporter from every major wizarding outlet standing outside this building. Do you know how long they’ve waited to see me after I disappeared for years? How eager they are for their long-awaited interview with all four of us?”

Fudge paled slightly.

“I can see the headlines now,” You said, voice dripping with venom, “Fudge Fudged Up. Yet again.”

Harry’s eyes were burning, “You think they’ll defend you after seeing how you handled Sirius Black? You locked him up on false charges. How many more lives are you willing to ruin?”

“I will make sure you never make another decision without the press crawling down your throat and breathing down your neck — second-guessing everything you say. Because if you think I won’t drag your entire office into the dirt for this, then you haven’t been paying attention.”

For a moment, the room was silent. Thick with tension. Even Harry looked vaguely stunned.

Fudge’s face had gone bone white, his knuckles gripping the edge of the desk.

“Very well,” He said finally, “Release him. No charges. Effective immediately.”

Headmistress McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence like a knife.

“Thank you, Minister.” She said, her tone measured but unmistakably pointed.

You didn’t hold back.

Without missing a beat, you shot over your shoulder, loud enough for Fudge to hear clearly, “I’m not thanking you for shit. Go fuck yourself.”

“A displeasure as always, Cornelius,” Ron added as he turned to leave, “Make sure to get off that fat arse every once in a while and do some actual work. Can’t let the children have all the fun.”

You didn’t look back.

None of you did.

But the echo of your words — and your fury — lingered in the halls long after you’d gone.

The iron doors of the holding chamber creaked open with a groan, and Mattheo stepped into the atrium — free at last.

The Ministry’s harsh lighting did nothing to dull the exhaustion written across his face or the tension that lingered in his shoulders. His shirt was rumpled, his hair a mess from running his hands through it one too many times. Flanked by Blaise, Theo, Draco, and Enzo — all equally sleep-deprived and stone-faced — he looked like a man still caught somewhere between disbelief and survival.

But the second he saw you sprinting across the floor toward him, something in his expression cracked wide open. The weight dropped from his shoulders.

He didn’t even get a breath in before you launched forward.

“Mattheo!”

His head snapped up just in time to catch you as you practically threw yourself into his arms. His hands rose on instinct, gripping your waist, steadying you like you were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You pulled back just enough to grab his face, scanning every inch like you had to see for yourself that he was okay, “Are you alright? Did they hurt you? Did they—?”

“I’m okay,” He murmured, voice low and raw, eyes locked on yours, “You came for me.”

“Of course I did.” You whispered, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Behind you, Harry, Hermione, and Ron caught up at a far more leisurely pace. They stopped a few paces back, watching you with fond, amused expressions.

“She’s gone." Ron muttered, shaking his head fondly.

“Precisely,” Hermione said, lips twitching, “I haven’t seen her this taken with someone since your brother Bill visited in second year.”

Ron recoiled, “Why would you remind me of that?”

Hermione laughed.

Harry just smiled, arms crossed, “Good for her.”

Across the way, Blaise, Enzo, and Draco were watching the reunion unfold with similarly raised eyebrows and smirking mouths.

“Is it just me,” Enzo said, “or does that look a little more intense than casual neighbours?”

Draco arched a brow, “Considering she just threw herself into his arms? I’d say yeah.”

Theo didn’t even bother hiding his grin, “Told you.”

As pleasantries began to pass between the groups — polite nods, cautious glances, a few lingering tensions quickly diffused by Ron and Blaise’s sarcastic commentary — you and Mattheo found yourselves standing with Headmistress McGonagall, who approached with her usual purposeful stride.

She looked at Mattheo first, and while her expression was sharp as ever, her eyes were kind. “Mr. Riddle,” She said crisply, “What happened to you was shameful. Unacceptable. And not the kind of justice we fought for.”

Mattheo shifted slightly, unsure how to respond.

But McGonagall continued, voice dry, “And I must say… when your Patronus came hurtling into my chambers at three o’clock this morning, I was more than a little surprised. I haven’t seen her beg for anything since third year, when Peeves nicked her entire potions essay.”

You flushed, brushing a hand over your face, “It wasn’t begging.”

Mattheo turned to you, gaze soft and unreadable — something between gratitude, guilt, and something else deeper. Warmer.

“I was worried about him.” You admitted timidly.

McGonagall’s brow rose, “So it would seem.”

You let out a small laugh, breath finally loosening in your chest. Mattheo’s ears turned pink, and you didn’t miss the way he relaxed the longer you stood close.

The headmistress tilted her head slightly, “Truthfully, I hadn’t expected to hear from you again. Especially after how soundly you ignored my last offer.”

Mattheo blinked, “Offer?”

“She was offered the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor,” McGonagall said, turning to him, “At the time, I thought she’d be a good fit. Now I’m convinced she’s the best one.”

You hesitated, just like you always did.

But Mattheo didn’t give you the chance to fall silent again.

“You should take it,” He said, firm and certain, “Your grades were the best in our year. You literally teach now — and you’re brilliant at it. You’d make a great professor, (Y/N). Hogwarts would be lucky to have you.”

You blinked at him, startled, “You think?”

He nodded, voice softening, “I know.”

McGonagall watched the exchange with something suspiciously close to amusement, “Wise words, Mr. Riddle. You’d do well to listen to your boyfriend, Ms. (L/N).”

You both flushed scarlet.

But you couldn’t even bring yourself to be embarrassed.

Because for the first time in a long, long while — standing there, surrounded by the people who knew your heart and the boy who held it — everything felt right.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to come home.

“Then I suppose I’ll have to accept.” You said at last, exhaling a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

Mattheo leaned toward you — and before you could turn away, his hand slid into yours. Not in a dramatic way. Not like he was making a scene. Just… quiet and sure. His thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles, grounding you.

You looked over at him — and the smile he gave you in return made something in your chest flip.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

You turned back to McGonagall, looking at your future boss with a smirk, “Drinks? To celebrate?”

McGonagall gave a long-suffering sigh — but her eyes sparkled, “I suppose one will do, for good will.”

Ron chimed in, already slinging an arm around Theo’s shoulders, “I say we make it a proper celebration. We’ve earned it.”

Hermione arched a brow, “Only you would be up for getting hammered at ten in the morning.”

Draco shared a look with Harry — who gave a subtle shrug, like, he’s got a point — and Blaise was already pulling out his wand to start listing nearby pubs.

You laughed — light and easy now — like the worst of it had passed, like something had finally cracked open in the best possible way.

Mattheo squeezed your hand again, just once.

And this time, you squeezed back.

The apartment building was quiet when you both got back.

The night had blurred into something golden — laughter echoing down cobblestone streets, half-empty pint glasses clinking on wooden tables, Theo and Harry nearly arm-wrestling over who paid the tab (they both lost), and McGonagall giving one tight-lipped smile before declaring she’d “had quite enough of rowdy children for one night” and Disapparating with a dramatic crack.

You were still smiling when you reached Mattheo's door, still glowing from the rush of everything.

Mattheo put his key into the lock—and then paused.

You turned to him, the adrenaline finally ebbing now that it was just the two of you, your pulse still not entirely steady — not after the last twenty-four hours, not after everything that had just happened.

You studied him in the dim light of the hallway. The bruised shadows under his eyes. The tight line of his jaw. The way he was looking at you — like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite figure out how.

There had been something building there, thick in the air between you. Something humid and suffocating since the moment you entered the bar. A part of you had wanted to leave, the lack of sleep beginning to weigh down on your limbs, but then you saw Lorenzo and Hermione clink their glasses in quiet solidarity — and you stayed. You leaned against Mattheo, your head on his shoulder, lulled by the quiet of the nearly empty pub, the alcohol making you soft and sleepy.

Mattheo turned to you, “Do you want to come in?”

You chuckled, “For a cuppa?”

He gave you a half smile, “Not this time.”

You let him lead you inside. Let him shut the door behind you and crowd you gently against it, looking at you with half-lidded eyes and a reverence that stole the breath from your lungs.

God, you wanted to kiss him. Wanted to mold your mouth to his, press your body against his, and lose yourself in the gravity of him.

“Thank you,” He said finally, voice low, nose a hair away from yours, “For today. For yesterday. For everything.”

You raised your eyes to his, still pressed between him and the door, trying to swallow the want pooling at the back of your throat like syrup, “It’s what you do for people you care about.”

He looked at you like you’d just said something sacred.

And then, softly — like the words hurt on the way out, “Do you?”

Your throat tightened.

“Yeah,” You whispered, “I do.”

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just looked at you, long and quiet — like he was memorizing the moment. Like he was waiting for something to shift.

You reached up and pressed your hand to his chest, fingers spread over the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Do you?”

His hand came up slowly, curling around yours, “I’ve been trying not to.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t think I was allowed to have something good.” He dipped his head, eyes flicking to your lips, “But then you showed up. And now I don’t want anything else. I’ll do whatever I have to do to deserve you.”

You cupped his cheeks, brushing your thumbs gently over his cheekbones. “Come here.” You whispered.

And then you kissed him.

No fanfare. No fireworks. Just you and him — pressed together under the soft glow of the hallway light. Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, wrapping around his neck as you tilted your head, standing on your toes and pressing your body flush to his.

Mattheo kissed you back with quiet desperation, brows furrowed like he was feeling too much at once, like kissing you was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. His hands cupped your face like he didn’t trust the world not to take you from him.

And you kissed him like you were trying to make up for every moment he thought he was unloved.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and tangled in each other, he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, softly:

"My dad is going to be thrilled."

Mattheo laughed against your mouth, "I can't say he's going to be too thrilled about what I'm about to do to his only daughter."

You shook your head, laughing — but you didn’t stop him. Not when he kissed you again, not when his hands found your waist, not when on this night, he finally, finally, became yours.

Bonus:

It hadn’t been that long since you walked these halls as a student. The scent of old stone and parchment still felt like home, and the echo of your laughter in the stairwells was barely faded.

Which is why it felt a little surreal, standing at the front of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom — your classroom now — watching twenty tired students blink at you, half-asleep, post-midterms.

You remembered this feeling too well. The post-exam lull. The I’d-rather-be-anywhere-but-in-class energy that leaked into the air like a sleeping draught.

So you did what any responsible professor would do.

Time for a little... intervention.

"Alright," You said, clapping your hands once, “Seeing as the lot of you look one Muffliato away from a nap, I brought a guest to help with today’s demonstration.”

The classroom door creaked open at just the right moment.

Boots echoed on stone. A shadow fell across the threshold.

And then in walked Mattheo Riddle — Auror robes fitted and dark, wand holstered, smug expression firmly in place.

The class lit up like you’d cast Lumos Maxima.

Half the class gasped.

The girls — no, scratch that, several students of all genders — squealed.

You actually had to bite back a laugh.

It was like déjà vu. For a moment, you were thirteen again, sitting in this very classroom, watching your friends clutch their chests over Gilderoy Lockhart like he was the second coming of Merlin.

Except now Lockhart was replaced by your fiancé. And your fiancé actually could duel.

You ignored the whispers, fighting a smile as Mattheo strolled in like he owned the castle. You could tell he was enjoying every second of the attention.

"Morning, class," Mattheo said with a smirk, scanning the room like he already knew the effect he had. His eyes finally landed on you, "Hope you're ready to learn something useful for once."

You rolled your eyes, "Don’t get cocky, Riddle.”

The students were wide-eyed now, completely awake, some whispering furiously. You let the tension build, then smiled sweetly.

You turned back to the class. “Since most of you seem to have forgotten how to hold a wand upright this week, Auror Riddle and I will be demonstrating live defensive magic.” You paused, “Via duel.”

The room exploded.

“You’re gonna duel him?!”

“IS THIS EVEN LEGAL?”

“Mister Riddle, PLEASE go easy on her—”

“She’s gonna mop the floor with him, are you kidding?!”

Mattheo tilted his head toward you, amused, "Your students seem confident in your skills. I’d hate to disappoint them when I win."

You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him, "I hope you can still keep your job once I humiliate you, darling."

“Oh, it’s like that?” He asked, stepping onto the platform. His wand slid into his hand like it belonged there, “Want to make it interesting, sweetheart?”

"I'm listening."

His grin was wicked, “If I win, we move the wedding up. This winter.”

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second.

A chorus of gasps filled the room.

You raised a brow, “That’s all? I was expecting something scandalous.”

“Scandalous comes after,” He said, low enough only you could hear. Then louder: “Well, Professor, do we have a deal?”

You tipped your head, “Deal.”

The class whooped as you took your stance. Wands raised. Eyes locked.

It started playful — spells exchanged like inside jokes, your shields strong, your counters cheeky. You danced around each other, laughing, bickering like you always did.