I should have walked away.
Should have turned around and left him standing there in that dark, empty corridor like I had every other time.
But I didn't.
Instead, I met his gaze head-on, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You think everything's about you, don't you?" I said, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
Mattheo smirked, but there was something behind it—something unreadable. "Not everything."
I scoffed. "Then what is this? Some sick game to you? You push me, you taunt me, and now you suddenly care?"
His smirk faltered. "It's not a game."
"Then what is it?"
A beat of silence.
Then—
"I don't know."
His honesty caught me off guard. For a moment, the bravado, the cocky arrogance—it was gone. And all that was left was him.
Mattheo Riddle.
Not Voldemort's son.
Not the boy who made my life miserable for years.
Just him.
I exhaled, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. "I don't need saving, Riddle."
"I never said you did." His voice was calm, careful. "But maybe you need someone who sees you."
I froze.
Because that—that was the thing that terrified me the most.
That maybe, for the first time, someone did.
But before I could respond, footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Mattheo stiffened, his entire posture shifting in an instant. The mask slipped back into place, the sharp, unreadable expression returning as a group of Slytherins rounded the corner.
Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and a few others.
Draco spotted us first, his gaze flickering between Mattheo and me before his lips curled into a smirk. "Well, well, well. What do we have here?"
I rolled my eyes. "Oh, shove off, Malfoy."
Pansy snickered. "Relax, Potter. It's just a little odd seeing you and him all alone together."
Mattheo leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "Jealous, Parkinson?"
Pansy's eyes narrowed, but before she could respond, Draco clapped a hand on Mattheo's shoulder. "Come on, mate. We've got more important things to do than waste time with her."
The way he said her made my skin crawl.
Mattheo didn't move at first.
Then, after a moment, he pushed off the wall.
He didn't look at me as he walked away, his expression locked down, unreadable.
But I could feel it.
The shift.
The tension.
The storm brewing between us, whether we wanted it or not.
And I had no idea what it meant.
—
That night, sleep didn't come easy.
My mind wouldn't stop spinning—replaying his words, the way his voice had softened, the way he had looked at me like he knew.
Like he understood.
I was used to people looking at me and seeing Harry's sister.
But Mattheo Riddle?
He looked at me like I was something else.
Something more.
And that scared me more than anything.
—
The next morning, I found Theo waiting for me outside the Great Hall, his hands tucked into the pockets of his robes.
He studied me for a second, then smirked. "So. You and Mattheo."
I groaned. "Merlin, not you too."
Theo chuckled, falling into step beside me. "I'm just saying—it's interesting."
"There's nothing to be interested in," I muttered, shoving open the doors and stepping inside. The Great Hall was buzzing with early morning chatter, students huddled over their breakfasts and discussing the latest gossip.
Theo raised an eyebrow. "That so?"
"Yes." I dropped into my seat at the Gryffindor table, grabbing a piece of toast. "Now, kindly shut up before I hex you."
Theo laughed but didn't push further.
Across the hall, at the Slytherin table, I could feel Mattheo's eyes on me.
But I didn't look.
Because if I did, I wasn't sure what I'd do.
And that was a problem.
—
That night, everything changed.
It started with a scream.
High-pitched. Terrified.
I bolted upright in bed, my heart pounding.
Then—chaos.
Footsteps thundered down the corridor outside, shouts echoing through the dormitory.
I barely had time to grab my wand before the door slammed open.
Ginny Weasley stood there, her face pale. "Y/N—something's happened."
I didn't hesitate. I followed her out into the common room, where a group of Gryffindors were already gathered, their faces filled with panic.
"What's going on?" I demanded.
Ginny swallowed. "There's been an attack."
My blood ran cold.
"Who?"
She hesitated. Then—
"Marcus Flint."
I froze.
The name sent ice through my veins.
The same Marcus Flint who had grabbed me at the party.
The same Marcus Flint who Mattheo had punched.
"What do you mean, 'attack'?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Ginny's expression darkened. "Someone found him outside the Slytherin dorms. Unconscious. Covered in blood."
A shiver crawled down my spine.
I didn't have to ask who they suspected.
And I knew—without a doubt—who I suspected.
Mattheo riddle.
