The Riddle of Us *Mattheo x Reader*

QoC: "Also, I saw you riding him when I was taking a walk by the Astronomy Tower."

A/n: Im sorry

The library was dimly lit, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of parchment and the scratching of quills against long-forgotten essays. Y/n sat hunched over a stack of books, her fingers curled into the edge of the nearest one, her knuckles white from the pressure. Her Transfiguration notes were sprawled across the table, but they may as well have been in bloody Gobbledegook for all the good they were doing her.

Exams were approaching at an alarming speed, and Y/n knew she wasn't prepared. Her grades were fine—decent even—but fine wasn't good enough. Decent didn't impress her father, and it certainly didn't make her mother beam with pride the way Draco's achievements did.

The favorite. He was always the favorite.

And she? She was tolerated. Useful, but never important.

Y/n exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. She had made up with Draco after their argument, slipping back into their usual dynamic as if nothing had happened. That was easy—Draco, at the very least, cared in his own way. But Pansy?

That was a different matter entirely.

They hadn't spoken properly in nearly a month, and though Y/n had tried to convince herself that it didn't bother her, that she was fine without Pansy's sharp tongue and knowing glances, the truth clawed at the back of her mind. She missed her.

She missed their whispered jokes in class, their elaborate pranks, their endless gossip sessions dissecting the latest drama in Slytherin house. She missed the way Pansy would roll her eyes at the boys, the way they would link arms walking down the corridors, sneering at anyone who dared cross them.

But mostly, she missed being needed.

Y/n shut her book a little too forcefully, earning a sharp glare from a nearby Ravenclaw. She ignored it, shoving her quill behind her ear before standing abruptly. She was done sulking.

She needed to fix this.

—

She found Pansy in the common room, lounging on the emerald-green settee by the fire, her legs draped lazily over Blaise's lap as she flipped idly through a magazine. Blaise, ever the picture of nonchalance, looked half-asleep, barely acknowledging Y/n's presence when she approached.

Y/n hesitated, swallowing down the inexplicable lump in her throat. She could turn around. She could pretend this never happened, go back to pretending she didn't care.

But she did. She did care.

Taking a breath, she stepped closer.

"Pans," she said, voice quieter than intended.

Pansy didn't even look up from her magazine. "Y/n," she drawled, turning a page. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Y/n resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, Pansy would make this difficult. "Look, I—" She stopped, fidgeting with the sleeve of her robe. "I've been a bit of a cow lately."

At that, Pansy did look up, raising a perfectly arched brow. "A bit?"

Y/n huffed, but there was no real venom behind it. "Fine. A complete cow, then. Happy?"

Pansy tilted her head, studying her with that infuriatingly perceptive gaze of hers. Then, without warning, she let out an exaggerated sigh and sat up properly, pulling her legs off Blaise, who grunted in protest.