Stella

Theo’s eyes flicked up from the floor. Instead of the usual hardness, they were warm and soft, but still so impossible to read unless you knew him as well as you did. 

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to blend in,” he deadpanned. 

“You look like you’re brooding.” 

“I am.” 

“Why?” 

He shrugged. “It’s loud.” 

“You’re lying.” 

His jaw twitched, frustration now visible on his features. He hated that you could read him like a book. 

You stepped closer. “Is it the countdown?” 

“No.” 

You tilted your head, silently questioning his answer. 

“Yes.” 

You smiled. “You hate traditions that force emotions, don’t you?” 

“They’re stupid,” he muttered. “Everyone pretending they’re not waiting to kiss someone at midnight.”

Your heart skipped. He looked at you. Not subtly. On the contrary, his gaze held a new kind of intensity and focus. 

“Well,” you teased softly, “Who is your midnight kiss, Theodore?” 

He immediately looked away. 

You raised a brow. “Do I know them?” 

His voice dropped. “Yes.” 

Your breath stopped. 

At 11:15 you were dragged away by some friends. Theo didn’t try to stop them, but his eyes followed you across the room. Every time you glanced back, he was still looking. 

Every time he saw someone get too close to you, his jaw tightened. 

When a Gryffindor leaned in to talk to you, Theo pushed off the wall immediately. 

You met him halfway. 

“You look annoyed,” you said, trying not to grin. 

He didn’t deny it. “Who was that?” 

“A friend.” 

He hummed. A sound that meant he didn’t like it. 

“Jealous?” You whispered. 

Theo’s hand brushed your waist as someone passed too close behind you, pulling you slightly toward him. 

He didn’t let go. 

“No,” he said. But his voice was too low. Too strained. 

At 11:45 people were starting to gather near the clock, couples pairing off, friends yelling over the music. 

Theo stood behind you now, close enough that his chest brushed your back when he leaned down. 

“Do you… want to do the countdown with me?” You asked softly. 

His breath tickled your ear. 

“Yeah.” He paused. “I want that.” 

Your cheeks warmed.

Someone bumped you again, and this time Theo didn’t just steady you. He wrapped a hand around your wrist and kept it there. 

Protective and quiet, but also possessive in a way he’d never admit. 

“You could just hold my hand,” you murmured.

He stiffened, but then, slowly, he laced his fingers with yours. 

“You okay?” You asked. 

“No,” he whispered. “But don’t let go.” 

You never would have. Not when his palm felt so warm against yours. 

At 11:59 it felt like the entire room was holding its breath. The entire focus on the enchanted clock. 

“TEN!” 

Theo’s fingers tightened around yours. 

“NINE!”

He shifted closer. 

“EIGHT!”

Your shoulders brushed, You didn’t move away. 

“SEVEN!”

His eyes were on your mouth. 

“SIX!”

Your heart hammered. 

“FIVE!” 

You whispered, “Theo.” 

“FOUR!”

He leaned in. Barely, but enough to set every nerve in your body on fire. 

“THREE!”

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured. 

“TWO!”

You shook your head. 

“ONE!” 

He kissed you.

Midnight exploded around you. People were cheering, confetti exploded somewhere, but all of it blurred as Theo’s hand slid to your cheek, his mouth warm and careful at first, the deeper when you pulled him closer. 

When you finally broke away, breathless, Theo rested his forehead against yours. 

“Happy New Year,” he whispered, voice rough. “You were… you were always supposed to be my first kiss of the year.” 

You smiled. “Was I really?” 

“Yes.”

“You’re supposed to be my last one too.” 

You kissed him again. Slower and sweeter this time. Theo let out the softest sound of relief. 

“Think you can handle that?” You teased. 

He brushed a thumb over your cheek. 

“With you?” His voice softened. “Always.” 

Masterlist

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Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

You turned.

Mattheo stood at the bottom of the stairs, wearing dress robes that should’ve been illegal. They were dark and tailored and slightly open at the collar. His curls were still damp from a recent shower. 

He didn’t say anything. Just stared. 

“What?” You asked, heart fluttering far too easily. 

“You look…” He paused, jaw working. “Different.” 

“Good different or bad different?” 

His eyes slowly dragged over you. Heat swirling in them. 

“… Good,” he said quietly. “Too good.” 

Your stomach flipped. “You’re going to the ball then?” 

He shrugged, trying to look unaffected, but failing miserably. 

“Not like I have a date,” he said. 

You raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t ask anyone.” 

He smirked faintly. “Neither did you.”

You bit your lip. His eyes immediately dropped to your mouth and just like that the air grew thick again. Tension filling the air between you. 

Hours later, you arrived at the Great hall. 

It glittered from top to bottom. Candles floating beneath the ceiling, evergreen decorating the entrance and music weaving through the air.

You were adjusting your gloves when someone bumped your shoulder. 

Mattheo. 

Of course. 

“Thought I’d find you here,” he said, voice low. 

“You look…” You stopped, heat rising up your neck. 

He leaned in slightly. “Careful. Might compliment me.” 

“You look nice,” you forced out. 

He smirked. “So do you.” 

Then his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly past your shoulder. You turned.

A Ravenclaw boy was making his way toward you, shy smile in place. You knew exactly why he was coming over, and by the way Mattheo’s jaw was clenched you assumed he knew too. 

“Oh no,” you whispered. “No, no, no, … don’t…” 

“I’m not doing anything,” Mattheo said tightly. 

“You’re glaring.” 

“Am I?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” 

You groaned.

The Ravenclaw finally reached you. “Hi, um, would you maybe want to dance?” 

You opened your mouth…

… but Mattheo stepped forward, voice sharp, like silk over steel. 

“She’s busy.” 

Your eyes widened. “Mattheo.” 

He didn’t look at you, and he didn’t look away from the boy either. 

“She already promised me her first dance,” he added calmly, like it was established fact. 

The Ravenclaw blinked. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know…” 

He backed off quickly. 

You turned to Mattheo, scandalized. “I did not promise you anything.” 

Only then, Mattheo looked at you, eyes dark with something you couldn’t name. 

“You were going to,” he murmured. 

Your breath hitched. 

Minutes later, you stood on the dance floor. Mattheo’s hand warm against your waist, his other hand sliding into yours like it belonged there. 

The music shifted into something slow and intimate. 

“You really scared him off,” you muttered. 

He smiled lazily. “I didn’t like him.” 

“You don’t even know him,” you countered. 

“I don’t need to.” His fingers tightened at your waist. “I know he’s not me.” 

Your heart stuttered. 

His eyes found yours, and the room seemed to fall away. 

“You’re jealous,” you whispered. 

Mattheo’s breath brushed your ear as he leaned in.  

“Just a bit,” he admitted. “You noticed.” 

“You weren’t subtle.” 

“I wasn’t trying to be.” 

You felt your pulse everywhere. 

His thumb brushed the side of your hand in a slow, sweeping motion that made your entire body feel too warm. 

“I didn’t ask anyone tonight,” he murmured after a long pause. 

“Why not?” 

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. It wasn’t a feeling kind of glance, it was the kind of look that says I see you. 

“Because I wanted you.” 

Your breath caught. 

“And you?” He asked quietly. “Did you want someone else?” 

You shook your head, unable to speak. 

Mattheo’s lips curved, soft and relieved but also dangerous in a quiet kind of way. 

“Good.” 

And as if the music was trying to match your feelings, it swelled. 

Mattheo leaned in until his forehead rested against yours, the touch gentle in a way he rarely allowed himself. 

“You’re going to kill me,” he whispered. 

“How?” 

“By looking like this. Being like this. Being with me like this.” 

You swallowed. “Mattheo…” 

His eyes flicked to your mouth. 

“Say yes,” he murmured. 

“To what?” 

“To this.” His hand slid higher up your back. “To us.” 

Your pulse was hammering by now. Unable to answer with words, you slowly tipped your head up, lips brushing his, like asking a question. 

He froze. 

Then he kissed you like he’d been waiting all night. All year. Maybe longer. 

The room blurred, the world spun, the music faded, everything narrowing down to Mattheo’s mouth on yours, warm and wanting and impossibly good. 

When you finally pulled back, breathless, he whispered: 

“Dance with me again.” 

You whispered back: “Always.” 

Masterlist

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Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

He didn’t even blink. “No.” 

You opened it anyway. 

Inside was a silver quill you had mentioned wanting one time three weeks ago. 

You looked up sharply, and somehow Tom was suddenly very invested in the pattern of the tablecloth. 

“… Tom.” 

He lifted his gaze, eyes as dark and steady as always. “Yes?” 

“You’re lying,” you accused him. 

He didn’t even flinch. “I don’t lie.”

You stared at him, and he stared right back, as stubborn as always. The spell was broken by someone snickering further down the table. Tom’s eyes flicked their way, cold enough to silence them instantly. 

You swallowed a smile. 

The second gift showed up two days later on your pillow. 

A book you had been searching for everywhere. It was a first edition in pristine condition, the pages smelling of old parchment and dust. You froze, but your gaze wandered toward Tom, who was lounging in an armchair nearby. He didn’t even bother looking up. 

“If you’re going to accuse me,” he said dryly, “at least have the decency to open it first.” 

He was smirking. You hated how pretty he looked doing it. 

You opened the book and a small bookmark slid out. It looked handcrafted, pressed with a silver serpent. 

Your heart thudded.

“I never said it was you,” you murmured. 

“You were thinking it,” he replied. 

You glared, but he stared right back, utterly unbothered. 

“Was it you?” You asked. 

“No.” 

That was another lie. A terrible one. 

The third gift changed everything. 

It was waiting in the library, tucked beneath your usual seat. A tiny box, no bigger than your palm. When you opened it, your breath caught. 

A necklace. Delicate and silver, a serpent curling around a small emerald. 

It was beautiful. Maybe too beautiful, but personal too. Maybe too personal. 

You turned, and Tom was standing right behind you. You jumped. He didn’t apologize. Of course, he didn’t. He never did. 

His eyes flicked down to the necklace in your hand. Just once, but just enough for you to recognize that he didn’t see it for the first time. 

“Do you like it?” He asked. 

“You said it wasn’t you.” 

He stepped closer, crowding you. Close enough that you could feel his warmth in the cold, dusty air. 

“I said nothing,” he murmured. 

“You said no.” 

He tilted his head. “I say many things.” 

You swallowed. “Why give this to me?” 

His gaze dropped to the necklace again. Slow and calculation, but also soft in a way that almost scared you. 

“Because it suits you.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

He leaned closer, voice dropping to something dangerous and quiet. “And because I don’t like watching others give you their attention. So consider it… a claim.” 

You breath hitched. 

“A claim?” 

His lips twitched. “Unless you’d rather it be a gift from someone else.” 

“I didn’t.” 

“No,” he murmured. “You didn’t.”

He reached out. His fingers brushed your collarbone, light and careful, as he lifted the chain from your palm. 

“May I?” He asked. 

You nodded before you could stop yourself. 

Tom fastened the necklace around your throat with slow, precise movements. His fingers lingered a second too long, warm against your skin. 

When he stepped back, his eyes were darker, softer. Dangerous in a different way. 

“You look…” His voice faltered for half a second. “Perfect.” 

You stared at him, unable to pull your eyes away. Heart still pounding in your chest. 

“… So it was you.” 

Toms smirked. The kind of smirk that meant he’d let himself be caught. 

“Of course it was me.” 

“And the other gifts?” 

He shrugged lightly. “If you already know the truth, why make me say it?” 

“Because I want to hear it,” you whispered. 

His eyes sharpened. Filled with intent, focused entirely on you. 

“Fine,” he said, stepping close again. “Yes. I gave you all of it. Every gift. Every note. Every detail. And I’d do it again.” 

Your voice was barely above a breath. “Why?” 

His answer came soft and slightly devastating: 

“Because you’re the only person I want to give anything to.” 

You didn’t speak. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t. 

Tom smiled, small and real. Almost shy if you didn’t know better. 

“Good,” he said quietly. “Now we understand each other.” 

Masterlist

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Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

“Rude,” Mattheo muttered. “Get up. I need you.” 

The last part did it. You opened your eyes slowly and there he was. Crouched beside your bed, curls messy, cheeks flushed from what you guessed was the cold, holding… a broom. 

And he was grinning. Of course, he was grinning. 

“Mattheo,” you sighed. “It’s…” you glanced at the clock. “… 1:14 a.m.”

“Perfect time for a field trip,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“I’m not flying with you in the middle of the night.” 

He leaned closer, eyes bright and annoyingly persuasive. “I’ll keep you safe.” 

You swallowed hard. Because with Mattheo, that promise meant something. Maybe too much. 

“… Fine,” you muttered. “Give me five minutes.” 

He fist-pumped the air. “Knew you loved me.” 

“You wish.” 

He just smirked, because he absolutely did wish.  

The castle was silent as the two of you crept through the dungeons. Moonlight spilling through the tall window onto the stone floor like liquid silver. 

Mattheo walked ahead, broom over his shoulder, hair catching the light in a way that made your heart misbehave. 

“You’re too excited,” you whispered. 

“It’s my charm,” he whispered back. “Try to keep up.” 

“I am,” you said. “You’re just walking fast.” 

He slowed immediately. Without looking back. 

Your stomach did something dangerous. 

The moment the courtyard doors creaked open, cold winter air rushed in. Your breath clouding in front of you. 

Mattheo turned to you, holding out his broom like an invitation. “You’re in front.” 

“What? Why?” 

“So I can hold you,” he said simply, like that wasn’t the most heart-stopping thing he could’ve said at 1:30 in the morning. 

“You don’t need to hold me.” 

“I want to,” he corrected softly. 

You climbed on. He swung up behind you, warm chest pressing against your back, hands sliding around your waist. 

You stiffened. 

“Relax,” he murmured, his breath brushing your neck. “I’ve got you.” 

And then…

You were in the air. 

The ground slowly disappeared under you. The wind rushed through your hair. The whole castle glowed beneath you like something out of a fairytale. 

Mattheo held you tighter when you wobbled. 

“Easy,” he whispered. “Lean into me.” 

You did. 

You leaned back, letting your back rest against his chest. His arms tightened instinctively, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other guiding the broom with effortless precision. 

“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly. 

“It’s perfect,” he said. “You and me and the whole world asleep.” 

He flew you over the Black Lake, moonlight reflecting off the surface like glass. Snow-covered trees whispered below. 

Mattheo slowed the broom, letting you hover above everything. 

You tilted your head just enough to see him. 

His eyes were already on you. 

“What?” You asked.

“Nothing.” A beat. “Everything.” 

Your heart flipped. 

“You brought me up here just to stare at me?” You teased. 

“Well,” he said, leaning in, so his forehead nearly touched yours, “the view is pretty good.” 

Suddenly, you were painfully aware of his hands on you, his breath, the closeness. 

“Mattheo…” 

“Say my name again,” he whispered. 

You shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. 

He smiled softly, genuine. Not the cocky one you saw him with so often. It was the kind of smile he didn’t give to many people. 

“I didn’t drag you out of bed just to flirt,” he said. “I dragged you out because I wanted you to see this.” 

He nodded toward the horizon. 

And just as you turned, a streak of light split the sky. 

Then another. And another. 

A meteor shower. 

You gasped. “Mattheo… this is…” 

“I know.” His voice dropped. “I wanted you to have the best view.” 

You looked at him again. His cheeks were pink from the cold, his lashes clumped together from the snow, his eyes too soft to be accidental. 

“Why me?” you whispered. 

Mattheo’s answer was so quiet you almost didn’t hear it over the wind. 

“Because you’re the only person I want next to me when the world looks like this.” 

Your breath caught. 

“And because,” he continued, fingers tightening on your waist, “if flying with you feels this good… kissing you might actually kill me.” 

You turned fully toward him, the broom wobbling slightly. His hands shot to your hips instantly, steadying you. 

“Then you should test that theory,” you said, barely above a breath.

A slow, disbelieving smile grew on his lips. 

“Come here,” he whispered. 

He leaned forward, his forehead almost touching yours, and then he kissed you, with the wind in your hair and the stars exploding above. His lips warm against yours. His hands on your waist, holding you like you were the only stable thing in the world. 

You kissed him back until you forgot the cold. Until the world around you disappeared. 

When you finally pulled away, breathless and smiling, Mattheo whispered against your lips: 

“Worth the risk.” 

Masterlist

Divider credit: @uzmacchiato

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

“It’s following you,” he mutters, eyes narrowed like he was analysing a crime scene. 

As if proving his point, the mistletoe drifts down, dipping right between you and him. You lean back. Theo leans back harder. 

“Okay,” you say. “Very funny. Who hexed it?” 

Theo’s jaw tightens. “If it was one of my friends, they would’ve hexed me too.” 

You blink. “… Theo.” 

The mistletoe floats sweetly above both of you. 

Theo’s expression goes blank. “No. Absolutely not. I refuse.” 

But still the mistletoe shows no signs of leaving. 

By mid-morning, you were convinced the thing was possessed. 

Every time you walked through a doorway, every time you turned a corner, every time you stopped to tie your shoe, the mistletoe drifted into place above you like a clingy little cloud. 

And Theo? For some reason, he kept ending up under it with you.

You weren’t even trying to find him. But you’d turn a corner and there he’d be, arms full of books, shoulders tense, staring at the greenery above your head. 

“Stop following me,” he whispers harshly. 

“You’re the one blocking every hallway I use,” you whisper back. 

“I’m trying to escape the mistletoe!” 

“So am I!” 

The mistletoe just wiggled smugly. 

A first-year passes by, giggling. 

Theo glares at him. 

Of course, it happens again at lunch. 

You only wanted fresh air. Instead, you find Theo sitting on a courtyard bench, rubbing his forehead like he was debating all of his life choices. 

When he sees you, he groans. “Please no…” 

The mistletoe zooms toward him like a heat-seeking missile. 

Now it hovers above both of you again. 

Theo stares up, exasperated. “You cannot be serious.” 

“Maybe it’s, um… pairing us?” You offered weakly. 

He turned to you so fast your breath caught. 

“Do you want it to?” 

There’s only silence. The cold air and the snow falling softly, muffling any kind of sound. 

Your heart on the other hand thuds unhelpfully loud. 

Theo blinks. His expression softening in an instant. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Forget I asked.” 

But you didn’t forget. Not even a little. 

It was nearly curfew when the mistletoe finally cornered you both. 

You and Theo walk into the empty common room, each hoping the other was going somewhere else. 

As soon as the portrait falls shut behind you, you realize that there really wasn’t an escape any more. The emptiness of the room only highlighting that now there weren’t any distractions. 

Just you, Theo… and the mistletoe dropping low enough to brush the top of your head. 

Theo groans into his hands. “This is torture.” 

“Just ignore it,” you whisper. 

“You can’t ignore a magical plant shoving you at someone you-“ He cuts himself off sharply. “Never mind.” 

You swallow. “Someone you what?” 

Theo meets your eyes. Really meets them. And for once, he doesn’t look away. 

“… Someone you like too much,” he says quietly, almost defeated. 

Your breath snags. 

The mistletoe dipped again, urging and impatient. 

Theo’s voice drops. Soft, nervous and full of hope. “And if kissing you makes that thing go away… I’m not exactly opposed.” 

You stepped closer. He exhales shakily. His hand slowly coming up to touch your cheek, his fingers gentle and hesitant. 

“Is this okay?” He whispers. 

You nod. 

Theo leans down slowly, as if he’s trying not to startle you, and then his lips meet yours. He kisses you like he’d been trying to kiss you for months. His lips are careful and warm, his fingers slide behind your ear, cradling your face. His breath mixing with yours. 

The mistletoe glows a faint shade of gold…

… and vanishes. 

But Theo doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t move at all. He just rests his forehead against yours, lips curving into a little smile. 

“For the record,” he murmurs, voice soft as snowfall, “I’m still willing to… re-test the theory.” 

You kiss him again. Just to be safe. 

Masterlist

Divider credit: @uzmacchiato

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

He had written you once since Hogwarts. The letters were so sharp the ink nearly bled through the paper. It wasn’t love, not then. It was fascination, the kind he usually reserved for ancient relics and unsolved curses. You were clever enough to answer him. Just once, but that was all it took. From then on, you became another puzzle he wanted to solve. 

It started with discussions about magic, the kind no one even dared to mention. Conversations in dim rooms, voices low, ink-stained fingers brushing over old pages and each other’s wrists. Tom spoke about immortality the way the poets spoke about love: as if it were beautiful, necessary, inevitable. 

But sometimes, when he forgot himself, he looked at you as though eternity frightened him. 

Those were the moments you lived for. The ones where his voice softened, where he almost smiled, when his eyes slipped from their perfect composure and you saw the boy still trapped inside the man he was becoming. You’d reach out, fingertips grazing the cuff of his sleeve, and he’d let you. For a second. 

Then the spell would break, and he would pull away. 

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said one night as the clock struck past midnight. The lamps flickered. The whole world felt like it was holding its breath. 

“Like what?” You whispered. 

“Like you think there’s something worth saving.” 

He said it with a smile so sharp it could cut glass. You wanted to tell him that you did. That you saw something, someone, beyond the hunger and the ambition. But you didn’t. Instead you only reached for him again, because words felt too fragile for the truth. 

His hand found yours in time. Cold, deliberate, trembling just enough for you to feel it. He didn’t kiss you. That would have been too human. Instead, he leaned close enough that his breath brushed your ear. 

“You don’t understand,” he murmured. “If you stay, you’ll break.” 

Maybe you would have listened. If only he didn’t sound so heartbroken saying it. 

Months passed. You told yourself you could handle it. The late nights, the letters written in Latin. The way he disappeared for days and returned with something hollow in his eyes. The world around him grew darker and colder, and you followed, quietly but willingly. 

It wasn’t that you were naive: it was that you believed in him the way one believes in lightning. Destructive, yes, but brilliant beyond reason. 

When the breaking finally came, it wasn’t loud. it was a whisper in an abandoned corridor. A plea you didn’t you didn’t mean to speak aloud. 

“Tom,” you said, voice shaking. “No matter how hard you try to push me away. I’d still choose you. Even if it killed me.” 

He froze, the way he always did when something human slipped through the cracks. Then he turned, and for the first time, he looked afraid. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” 

“I do.” 

He stepped closer, eyes burning. His hands came up, almost tender, framing your face. And for a heartbeat, you thought he might say it. The words he buried with every piece of himself that still remembered how to feel. 

But instead, he whispered, “You’d apologise for bleeding on my shirt.” 

You laughed, soft and shaking. “Would you forgive me?” 

“No.” His voice broke, just slightly. “But I’d remember you.” 

And then he was gone, swallowed by the night and the future he’d been carving out of shadows. You stood there, blood rushing in your ears, the ghost of his touch still burning against your skin. 

You didn’t see him again for a long time. No as Tom Riddle, at least. 

But sometimes, when the wind moved just right, you could swear you still heard his voice. Low and impossible. Whispering your name through the dark. And somewhere, deep inside him right where the boy used to be, maybe he still remembered. 

It wasn’t until years later that you saw him again. 

The night was quiet. Until it wasn’t. You hadn’t meant to be there. You hadn’t meant to see the things that should’ve stayed hidden. But the moment the curse hit you, all your breath vanished, and the world blurred into red, black and pain. You stumbled backwards, hands pressed uselessly to your side. You could feel something warm spilling between your fingers. The alley around you tilted, dark rain washing over cobblestones that gleamed like mirrors.  

Somewhere deep inside him right your mind you thought: This is how it’s going to end. And then you thought of Tom, wherever he was now. You thought about how he’d never know that you’d still been waiting, still believing in the boy you once loved. 

But then the air changed. The world seemed to bend. Shadows folded inward as if the night itself obeyed a silent command. You could see a figure still hidden in the shadows. The person slowly stepped out of the darkness. It was Tom. 

Fury was carved in his face. His eyes found you instantly. The anger in them cracking into something different when he saw the blood. You tried to speak, but your voice came out almost inaudible. 

“Tom…” 

He moved fast. The hem of his cloak snapping against the stone as he knelt down beside you, gathering you up before you could fall. His hands, always so precise, were now trembling. 

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he said, voice low and fierce, almost angry. Not at you. Never at you, but at the world for daring to touch you. 

You smiled faintly, the taste of iron on your lips. “You came.” 

He looked down at you, and for a moments his gaze softened. The Trimble calm in him broke. You’d seen him do unspeakable things without flinching. You’d never seen him afraid until now. 

“Hold on,” he said. His hand pressed against the wound, and you gasped. He whispered something, a spell you didn’t recognise, and light flared beneath his palm. But the bleeding didn’t stop. It slowed, shimmered, and then kept seeping through his fingers. Slowly staining the cuff his white shirt. 

You looked at the spreading red. “I’m sorry… Your shirt…” You gasped, your words coming out broken. 

He froze, eyes widening, remembering. 

He tried to soothe you. “Shhh… It doesn’t matter.” 

Your voice sounded panicked by now. “No it’s not okay. You said you wouldn’t forgive me. Don’t lie now. You were so sure.” 

Something in him fractured. He shook his head once, sharply, as if denying the very idea. “No,” he breathed, pulling you closer. “Not this time.” 

You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric between you. Fast and unsteady, but human. 

“I forgive you.” 

The words came like a confession, soft but heavier than any promise he had ever made. For a moments, the world seemed to pause between the two of you. The night, the rain, the blood, all holding still as if listening. 

You smiled, weak but real. “You… you weren’t supposed to.” 

“I know.” His voice broke. “But I did.” 

He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes closing, as if the contact alone could keep you alive. His hands, still stained with your blood, held you like something sacred. You wanted to tell him not to grieve. That you’d found what you’d been searching for all along. But you couldn’t speak anymore. You just stayed there, caught between pain and peace, wrapped in the arms of the boy who once told you that he could never love.

And in that quiet, as the last of your strength slipped away, Tom Riddle, the man who would become Voldemort, whispered a word he’d sworn he’d forgotten. 

Your name. 

It was barely a breath, but it was enough to make the darkness pause before it took you. 

The world had gone silent. 

No rain, no breath, no sound but the slow, stuttering rhythm of a heartbeat that wasn’t his. Tom held you as though he could will the life back into you. As though the sheer force of mind, of magic, could rewrite what was happening. The blood had stooped, but only because there was so little left to spill. His spells slowly dimmed, dissolving into the air between you. 

He pressed his hand to yours cheek. It was already cooling. 

For a moment, he refused to understand. So far Tom had build his life on control. Every outcome was predicted and this was chaos. This was the one equation that refused to balance. 

“Wake up,” he whispered, shaking his head. His voice cracked, raw and unfamiliar. “You’re stronger than this. You don’t get to-“ 

He stopped. the words falling apart in his throat. 

When your head fell against his shoulder, something inside him went very still. He looked down at the blood staining his shirt, your blood, and remembered your smile when you had warned him about it. The apology. The forgiveness he’d given too late. 

And that was when the quiet broke. 

A sound escaped him. Not a scream, not a cry. It was smaller than that, a single breath that trembled into nothing. The air around him rippled. The cobblestone trembled slightly beneath the pressure of his magic. A window shattered somewhere, lights flickered, but Tom didn’t move. He only pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin, whispering fragments of spells that had no power here. 

“You’re stronger than that. You can’t be gone,” he murmured. “You’re mine. You promised.”

The world tilted, the shadows bending towards him. Power thrummed beneath his skin, begging to be unleashed. For the first time in his life, he didn’t want it. What use was power when the one thing that made him human was slipping through his fingers?

He pressed a blood stained kiss to your forehead. A mark of the last kindness he knew how to give. 

“I forgive you,” he said again, though you couldn’t hear him. Then, softer: “Forgive me.” 

When he finally laid you down, the air felt colder, the silence heavier. He stood there a long while, watching the way the light caught in your hair, the way peace looked so foreign on your face.

Something inside him shut like a door. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled his wand from his sleeve and wiped the blood from his hands. The tenderness drained from his features, leaving only coldness.

The boy who had loved you died with you. 

The man that remained would make sure the world never forgot your name, though he would never speak it again. 

And as he turned, the night followed him, folding itself around the hollow where his heart had been. 

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

He exhaled, the faint glow of his cigarette flaring before the smoke curled lazily upward, dissolving into the starry sky.

A soft laugh escaped him. “I’m just thinking.” You knew better than to press him. Mattheo hated being pushed to reveal his thoughts, so you let the silence settle back between you. Comfortable, familiar.   Then after a long pause, he spoke again. “I met someone.” The word hit you like a punch. Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse quickened, but you stayed silent. Despite your mind rebelling.

“Well, ‘met’ might be exaggerated,” he continued, his tone almost sheepish. “But I saw her, and she smiled at me.”  “And now what? You’re in love?” you teased, trying to lighten the moment, but even you could hear the sharp edge in your voice.

He didn’t answer right away.

“Mattheo? Is everything okay?“ you asked softly. “I’m scared,” he whispered.  You froze. You’d seen him vulnerable before, but never like this. Never stripped down to something so raw it almost hurt to witness. “I’m scared because every time I see her, my heart does that weird little jump, and my stomach starts to feel weird and I get all nervous and…”  “Mattheo. Breathe.”  “Right,” he muttered, dragging in air. “Breathing.” “Who are you even talking about?”  “She’s in Slytherin. Our year. Long, dark hair. It’s almost black, but when the sun hits it, it’s like this deep mahogany. And her eyes… they’re blue.  Cerulean blue.”  You could feel a lump forming in your throat. Of course, you knew who he meant. She was breathtaking. Like out of this world. You’d never spoken to her, but she seemed kind. Especially kind for a Slytherin.  “I think I have a few classes with her...” you managed. “Really?” His head shot up and he threw you a hopeful glance. “Could you… maybe introduce me to her?”  You forced a smile, ignoring the ache in your chest. “Sure. Of course.”  Relief softened his face. His cigarette had burned low by now, and above you, the moon stood pale against the night.

“I have to go,” he said, rising to his feet. “Theo wanted to go over some Potions notes with me. And… thank you. I owe you.”  “Don’t worry. That’s what best friends are for, right?”  He smiled, and you followed him up, wrapping him in a hug. His warmth lingered for a moment before he pulled away.

“You’re not coming with me?” he asked. “No. I think I will stay here a bit longer. Enjoy the night.”  “Alright.Be careful.”  “You too.”  You listened to his footsteps fade down the stairs. When you were certain he was gone the tears came, hot and unstoppable. Years of longing and quiet hope unravelling all at once. You had always been there for him, closer than anyone else. You’d seen the real Mattheo: the boy who cried and feared, who trusted you enough to bare the parts of him that were broken. The parts no one else saw. You had shared secrets, laughter and wounds. Somewhere along the way he became more than just your best friend. So much more.

But to him, that’s all you’d ever be. His best friend. Nothing more. Never more.

Your sobs echoed impossible loud against the stillness of the night. You sat on the edge of the astronomy tower till your throat was raw and your eyes had run dry. Finally, with heavy limbs, you dragged yourself to bed, knowing that sleep wouldn’t come. Not tonight. Not with his words replaying endlessly in your mind.

The weeks that followed wore you down. After introducing them to each other, they began spending more and more time with each other until, eventually, they became a couple.

You tried to be supportive. You answered every question from “What should I wear to this date?” to “What kind of flowers do you think she likes?”. He seemed happier than ever, but beneath your eyes, dark shadows became constant companions. You smiled less. And on top of all that your parent’s expectations pressured you into long nights studying. Not that it mattered. He didn’t have time for late night Astronomy tower meetings anyway. No. Mattheo hadn’t been there in weeks. 

No more secret meetings.

No stolen conversations.

No whispered secrets in the dark.

One late night, desperate for some quiet, you slipped out of your dorm. Away from your roommates. Away from the restless thoughts that wouldn’t let you sleep.

Your footsteps echoed softly against the stone walls. You climbed the familiar spiral stairs, careful to avoid the squeaky steps, until you reached the top. But when you turned to your usual spot, someone was already sitting there.

You tensed, until a voice broke the silence. 

“It’s late. You should be sleeping.” 

Your posture eased when you recognized Mattheos voice. You crossed the distance and sat beside him.

“I’m not really tired,” you muttered. 

“Well, you look like you are.” 

Silence settled between the two of you. Not comfortable. Weighted, full of unsaid things. 

Then you noticed something missing: no warm ember glow, no smoke curling in the air.

“You’re not smoking,” you said quietly.

“I stopped. She didn’t like it.”

You forced yourself not to react. As though it didn’t matter. As though you told him countless of times that you hated the smell, that you worried about what it was doing to him. Only to be met with laughter and dismissal. But now, for her, suddenly, he could change.

The ache in your chest surged, breaking through the layers you managed to carefully bury it under.

Abruptly Mattheo stood.

“I have to go.” 

You didn’t ask why. You already knew. You slightly turned towards him, watching as he gazed off into the distance, at the shadowed woods behind the castle. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t offer a hug. Nothing. 

He was already a few meters away, when you called softly after him:

“Have a good night. Sleep well.” 

He nodded once without turning around. 

No “You too.” No “Goodnight.” No “Try to get some sleep.” 

And so you were left there, once again.

Alone.

Again. 

A few weeks later

It was an early morning. The kind where mist curled lazily over the meadows and the sun light painted everything in soft gold. The kind of morning that felt both calm and alive, like the world was holding its breath.

The plate in front of you was full, piled high with breakfast you couldn’t get yourself to touch. The same way sleep decided to come sporadically, hunger didn’t appear either. The only thing that kept you going in times like this was tea. Cup after cup, till your veins buzzed with it.

Then came the flutter of wings. Hundreds of owls swooped into the Great Hall, carrying parcels and letters, some feathers drifting down. A small brown owl dropped two envelopes in front of you.

You reached for them, ready to shove them into your bag and ignore them for a few hours, until familiar handwriting caught your eye.

You broke the seal. Inside, only one short message:  “Meet me at the Astronomy tower tonight. Same time as always. We need to talk.”  Your heart stuttered. The handwriting was messy but undeniably his. Mattheo’s. The words themselves weren’t harsh, yet a knot tightened in your stomach. A note like that couldn’t mean something good.  The second letter was from your parents. You barely glanced at it before shoving it in your bag alongside Mattheo’s. Their words could wait.

The entirety of the following day blurred. You couldn’t focus on the lessons, on homework, on anything but the hours passing by. By the time the castle grew quiet, you tucked a sweater over your head, triple-checked that your roommates were asleep, and slipped out. You sneaked down the stairs through the empty common room. Past the silent portraits.  Up the spiral staircase. At the top of the Astronomy tower the freezing air bit cold against your skin. You wrapped your arms around yourself and walked toward the edge where you always sat. This time you didn’t sit. This felt like a standing conversation.

Moments later, footsteps echoed behind you. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. You felt him. The warmth of his presence. The familiar mix of his cologne, parchment, the soap he always used and something so uniquely him.

“So,” you said quietly. “You wanted to talk.” “Yes.” His voice was steady. Too steady. “I’ll be straightforward. She said she didn’t like me being near you. I think… we should stop meeting alltogether.”  The word hit, sharp but not surprising. You thought of the long weeks without him, of how he’d always been absent lately. Of how you’d eventually stopped reaching out. 

“Okay,” you answered hesitantly. “If that’s what makes you happy.”  He shook his head slightly. “This isn’t about me. This is about the first real thing I’ve had in a long time. She’s important to me.”  You wanted to scream. To tell him that you had always been there. Before her. Before everything. That your friendship had been real too. That it mattered.

But you didn’t. You swallowed the ache and chose understanding. Like you always did.

“Goodbye, Mattheo.”  “Goodbye.” The months that followed blurred into study and exhaustion. You buried yourself in books, desperate to live up to your parents expectations. Graduation came, and you walked away with honors. But it didn’t feel like a victory. No. Not when you watched her run into his arms. Not when he picked her up spinning her around, laughter spilling from him so freely. So, you left. London was supposed to be your escape, promising freedom and independence, a chance to forget. You found a flat. A job that paid well. A new life.  

But at night, as the city hummed outside your window, you still went to bed with him engraved on the back of your eyelids. And in the mornings, you woke with him haunting your dreams

Mattheo’s POV

Life after Hogwarts felt like a dream. At least, that’s how it started. Mattheo moved in with her, the girl he had hopelessly fallen in love with. The one who still gave him butterflies. The one who understood him the best or so he thought. 

One late evening, worn down by his father’s relentless expectations, he sat in front of the fire. Flames licked the fresh logs, their crackling being the only sound filling the room. She sat beside him in silence, her presence meant to be comforting.

“What’s on your mind?” she asked softly. 

“It’s nothing. I’m just tired.”

She didn’t want to press, didn’t want to confront him but it always felt like this. Like he didn’t let her in and like he always hid certain parts of him. 

“You can tell me, you know.” She tried again. 

“It’s okay, really.” He tried to smile, but it came out brittle, stiff, false.

Her voice cracked. “No, it’s not okay. God, it’s always like this. You don’t let me in. You don’t share what you’re feeling, what you’re thinking. Sometimes it’s like I live with a stranger. Like you have no emotions at all.” Tears slipped down her cheeks.

Pain surged through him, sharp and defensive. “What the fuck do you mean? I try, okay? But no, you are always complaining. I’m exhausted. You make me exhausted.” His voice rose, harsh enough to cover the ache beneath it.

That night, they went to bed in silence. And for the first time in years Mattheo dreamed. He dreamed of you. How you always seemed to understand without asking. How you’d been there steady and patient, until he pushed you away.

The next morning dawned clear and cold. The air felt sharp, the hesitant sun only just beginning to warm the world. Birds chirping outside as if it were any other day.

But inside, the house felt empty. No smell of pancakes drifting from the kitchen. No soft humming under her breath. The bed beside him was already cold, as though she’d left it hours ago.

He stumbled down the stairs and found her in the kitchen, still in her pajamas, hunched over a cup of coffee that was probably cold by now.

“Listen,” she whispered. “I think this isn’t working anymore. I can’t keep being with someone who won’t let me in and you deserve someone who understands you. I can’t be that for you.” 

He didn’t argue. No. He knew nothing he said would change her mind. And maybe, deep down, he knew she was right. So he sat there in quiet understanding as she packed her bags. A few hours later, she was gone. Leaving behind something that had once felt sacred, now broken beyond repair.

The days that followed, the house became unbearable. Every corner held a trace of her. Her scent lingered in the sheets. The vase she always filled with fresh flowers sat empty on the table. The old vinyls she bought from the woman down the street still laid by the record player. She had loved them, despite their harsh crackle. They’ve got character, she’d always said. 

It took him weeks to leave, but eventually, he found a flat in London. Small, above a pub, noisy at all hours. But at least nothing there reminded him of her.

Not that it mattered. He couldn’t sleep anyway.

Your POV Now, a few years later, the ache had settled deep inside your chest. Buried beneath layers of routine and time, only deciding to creep out occasionally, when something triggered it. The smell of the same cigarette brand he used to smoke. A song from years ago playing faintly in a department store. The one he always used to hum under his breath. The sight of a 7B pencil that made you think of his drawings, the ones he never let you see, always hidden beneath the black cover of his notebook.

Sometimes you wondered where he was now. Still with her? Maybe married. Perhaps even with children. 

The sight of your childhood home teared you away from your thoughts. Your parents had invited you for an afternoon tea. You took a deep breath and opened the door. You had barely set your bag down when your mother’s voice carried from the sitting room. “There you are. We were just talking about you.”

You sighed quietly before stepping inside. Both your parents sat there, teacups balanced neatly on porcelain saucers, eyes sharp despite the cozy afternoon light.

“Work is going well,” you offered, preemptively, before the inevitable questions arrived. “I just finished this huge project. My boss was pleased.”

“That’s … nice,” your father said, the pause sharp enough to cut glass. “Anything else you want to tell us?” your mother shot you a meaningful glance. She leaned forward, her pearls catching the light. “You’re nearly twenty-five now. A respectable age. And while your little job is fine for now darling, you must understand it won’t mean anything if you don’t settle down.”

You blinked. “I graduated top of my class. Like you always wished for and now I’m working in a field I actually care about. Isn’t that something?”

“it’s something temporary,” your father said, as if correcting a child’s mistake. “A career doesn’t hold you at night. A career doesn’t give you children.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening around the seam of your trousers. “I’m not in a hurry to marry anyone. I’m happy with my life as it is.”

“Happy?” your mother repeated the word like it was foreign. “You’ll only be happy when you’re standing beside a husband. When you’re running a household. When you’re raising children That’s the real accomplishment for a woman. Everything else is… distraction.”

Their words clung to you like smoke. You smiled politely, the way you always did, though your jaw ached from holding it in place.

Later, when you were finally back in your flat, you leaned against the door and let the smile drop. Their voices still echoed in your ears like a steady, suffocating drumbeat of expectations you could never seem to outrun. For you, there had never been anyone. Not that you were looking. Every man that approached you, you compared to Mattheo. The few dates you went on since Hogwarts felt like betrayal, towards someone who had no idea he still lived inside you.

The few friends you met through work often asked if there really wasn’t someone. You laughed it off. Told them no. Hid the pain behind the façade of independence. I just haven’t met the right person yet, you’d say, while they dragged you to pubs and introduced you faces that blurred together, forgettable and hollow.

One Friday night, you found yourself again at a crowded table in a pub, your friend celebrating the weeks end. Their boyfriends joined, they brought a friend, who your friends immediately nudged into the seat beside you. Their sly glances made your stomach twist.

He started to talk about himself. About his career, his brilliance. You tried to engage, really tried, but he constantly interrupted, explaining things you already knew far too well. Mansplaining every topic, yet you smiled politely, nodded, and let your mind wander. Eventually the group thinned. They left laughing, some drunk and some drunk in love. You were left with silence.

You declined a ride home, desperate for some space. That’s when you heard it, a deep voice.

“Do you mind if I sit?”  You looked up and there stood a man. Tall and attractive.

“No, go ahead.”

He sat beside you, saying nothing more. No introductions, no questions. Just silence. And you were grateful for it. For once, no forced laughter, no shallow conversation. Just quiet.

Hours passed, the pub slowly emptying out. People finally deciding they had enough of alcohol or making social connections. No one really knew.

When you finally moved to leave, a voice cut through the stillness. Familiar. Too familiar.

Your gaze snapped up. Curly hair. Brown eyes. Lips you could have recognized in your sleep. A face older, but unmistakable. Mattheo.

Your posture stiffened, but his attention wasn’t on you. His gaze was locked on the man beside you, their hands now intertwined in a handshake.  “Man, I haven’t seen you in so long. What are you doing in London?” Mattheo’s voice rang with surprise. 

“Work mostly. And you? Heard you’re living here now. Enjoying the city life.”

“Yeah. Needed a change you know. I’ve got a place right upstairs actually. You should stop by sometime.”  It was only then his gaze shifted, finally landing on you. He was about to make some lighthearted comment. Something along the lines of “And what lovely companion have you been hiding from me?” but the words caught in his throat. You smiled softly.

“Hi. It’s been a while.” You offered your hand.  He managed a single word. “Hi.”  The man beside you looked between you. “Wait, you two know each other?”

“Yeah,” you answered quickly. “Just old friends.”

Mattheo nodded, his gaze dropping. “Right. Old friends.” Soon after, you excused yourself. “Well, it’s getting late. I should get going. It was nice meeting you,” you said to the man beside you, finally introducing yourself. He gave his name, and you shook hands before slipping into the cool night air.

Fresh air cleared your senses, but your thoughts remained tangled. I needed a change. What did he mean by that? Did he still live with her? Surely. Probably married by now. Perfect, together.  

You also thought about the other guy. The first one in years that you felt a flicker of comfort with. He seemed nice. Calm. Just the way you liked it.  Days later, he still lingered in your thoughts. Not the way Mattheo did of course, but often enough for you to start wondering if you would ever meet him again. You tried searching, but without a last name, without knowing if he even lived in London, every lead turned cold. Desperation gnawed at you until you admitted the truth: the only person that could help was Mattheo. And so, you stood in front of the nameplate Riddle, finger hovering over the doorbell. Muggles lived in this neighborhood; the name blended in easily. After the tenth stranger cast you a suspicious glance, you pressed it. You waited a bit. Then again. You looked at your watch. It was still early in the morning but knowing Mattheo he was up early.

Finally, the door buzzed. You climbed the cold, tiled staircase, your pulse quickening as you reached the third floor. And there he was, standing in the entrance to his flat. Leaning relaxed against the door frame, arms crossed, exes fixed on you.

You stopped hesitantly. He tensed as well.  “Hi. I hope I didn’t wake anyone,” you managed. He let the words hang in between you.  “Why are you here?” his voice was clipped.  You fidgeted, words spilling out. “I just came… well you know the guy from a few weeks ago? You probably don’t even remember, but I was just wondering if you had his last name. Or his address. Something. God, that kind of sounds creepy now. I swear, I’m not trying to stalk him. He just seemed really nice, and you know him. Kind of. I think… anyway. I’m just realizing how stupid this sounds. I am probably disturbing you. I should go.“

Mattheo’s POV  He was fucked. Completely fucked.

First your face had haunted him after that night in the pub.  How you’d somehow grown even more beautiful yet looked exactly the same. How your voice still sounded like home. And now you were standing there, in the staircase of the house he lived him, rambling nervously, fidgeting the way you always had.  

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe it was everything. The ache, the memories, the fact that you were standing there at all.

“Do you want to come in. Maybe for a tea?” “Sure, why not”  He stepped aside, hanging up your coat while you glanced around. “So… you live alone now?”

“Yeah, a few years now.”  “Ever think about decorating this place?” you teased soft, voice soft. “You know I don’t care about that stuff.” He turned on the kettle, dropping teabags into mugs. Silence stretched until the kettle beeped. He poured the water and slid a mug toward you. “So. You wanted his address, right?” His tone bitter, edged.

“Yes.” “Why?”  You hesitated, then met his eyes. “Remember that night at the Astronomy Tower? When you told me about her? You said you owed me. Consider this me taking you up on that offer.”

He flinched. He remembered. Of course he did. It was the night everything between you started to fracture.  

“Right. I suppose I can’t really break that promise.” He scribbled down the address and watched as you tucked it away neatly into your purse.  “Thank you. For this and for the tea. But I should go.”

“Sure. I’ll get your coat.”

He stood there as you fixed your hair in the hallway mirror, offered him a soft smile, and whispered, “Goodbye, Mattheo.”

  “Goodbye”  The second one in so many years. Two too many.

When the door closed, he stayed there, staring at the wood, your scent still lingering in the air.   Your POV The years that followed brought change. You grew closer to the man. Went on dates. Moved in together. Made friends that weren’t tied to the past.

You didn’t love him the way you had loved Mattheo, but enough to imagine a future. He on the contrary was deeply in love with you. That was enough you told yourself. Being loved felt safer than longing for someone who had only ever left.

One day he knelt before you with a ring, eyes shining, voice steady. You said yes. Of course you did. Thinking you finally reached everything you wanted in life: love.

You threw yourself into the wedding plans, trying to bury the doubt that sometimes surfaced in the quiet moments.  It wasn’t until you were sending out invitations that he asked, “Should we invite Mattheo? He’s the one who connected us after all.”

You hesitated, then agreed silently. Thinking surely he wouldn’t come.

You didn’t expect the doorbell at six in the morning. Persistent. Urgent. When you opened the door, he stood there. Hair disheveled, fingers raked through it too many times. The wedding invite crumbled in his hand.

Mattheo.

“Can I come in?”  Normally you would’ve said no. Normally you would’ve let him say it right there at the door and then closed it in his face. But this morning, seeing him like this, disheveled and restless, looking as though he might shatter if you denied him, you stepped aside and opened the door wide.

“Sure. Come in.” You let him down the hallway into the kitchen.  “Tea? Coffee? Water?” you offered automatically. “No. I’m good. Thank you.”  You sat down at the table, wrapping your hands around the mug you’d been nursing earlier. He didn’t sit, just hovered there, shifting on his feet, looking like he didn’t know where to put himself.   Then suddenly…

“You can’t marry him!”

Your head snapped up. “Yes, I can.” Your voice was firm. Final. “Why would you?"

“He’s nice.”  His laugh was dry, bitter. “You should get a dog. I hear they have similar qualities.”

“Mattheo…” You sighed. “You know that’s not what I mean.”  “Then what do you mean?”  Your patience cracked. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Not after all these years. After everything.” His jaw clenched. “I know you don’t love him. You deserve better.”  The words burned. You spat them back at him. “Better? Like you?” A pause. His voice low. “Maybe…”  That did it. The fury, the grief, the ache you had buried for years surged all at once. “You don’t get to do this. Not when I’ve spent my entire life loving you. Not when you put everyone else first. Always. And I tolerated it until it broke me.”

Tears blurred your vision. Your hand covered your face as your body slumped, exhaustion finally spilling through the cracks. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. Too softly. “Just leave.” Your voice shook, but the words were steady. “There’s nothing you can fix here. Not after all this time. You’re still invited to the wedding; he wants you there, after all.”  For once, he didn’t argue. Didn’t linger. Mattheo left as quietly as he had come, leaving you sitting at the kitchen table, alone. Just like he did so many times before. Mattheo's POV The wedding gleamed in white, flowers and tulle, satin dresses flowing down bodies like water, stiff suits cutting through the room. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose and fell, some genuine, some brittle. A string quartet played a delicate melody that drifted through the room, intertwining with whispers and gossip. It was beautiful, yes, but empty. An event heavy with perfection but lacking personality and soul.

When he thought about it, he realized your parents must have orchestrated the entire affair. He remembered you once telling him how they had always dreamed you’d marry straight after Hogwarts, how they had scoffed at the idea of further education. It looked like they finally got what they always wanted.

Mattheo stood in the corner of the room, hidden under an invisibility charm. Watching. Always watching.

His gaze never left you. Sitting there in white, beside your new husband. Angelic. Untouchable. Your laugh carried across the room, light, elegant, rehearsed. Not the laugh he remembered. Not the one where you let go, unguarded, vulnerable, honest. That laugh, the one that cracked something inside him open inside him every time, had always been reserved for him.

A knot tightened in his stomach. For the first time in years, he felt the full weight of losing you, your friendship, your secrets, the possibility of something more.

With one last glance, he disappeared.

It wasn’t until years later that he saw you again. Through the window of a shop in Diagon Alley. A little girl, maybe six, tugged impatiently at your hand. Your other rested on your round stomach, protective and gentle. You laughed as you scolded her softly for running ahead, your whole face glowing with warmth. With peace.

Your gaze lifted, brushing across the glass until it caught his.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

You smiled at him. Open, polite. The kind of smile you gave to strangers.

You didn’t recognize him. Not after all these years.

And it hit him then, final, undeniable.

He had lost you.

Forever.

Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.