The Slytherin common room was filled with laughter—the sharp, biting kind that wasn’t meant to amuse but to wound.

Draco leaned back in his chair, his signature smirk firmly in place as he drawled, “Honestly, I don’t know why she even bothers hanging around here. Must be desperate for attention.”

Pansy giggled, flipping her hair. “Or maybe she thinks she’s one of us.”

Blaise chuckled. “Pathetic, really.”

The words hung in the air like venom, but Matheo Riddle said nothing.

He sat there, silent, watching as they picked her apart like vultures feasting on prey. He saw the way her posture stiffened, the way her fingers curled around the edge of her sleeve. She was holding back—choosing dignity over retaliation.

But her eyes—those piercing, intelligent eyes that had always challenged him—were filled with something he’d never seen before.

Betrayal.

And then, she turned and walked away.

Not a word. Not a glance.

Just… left.

The laughter continued, but Matheo felt something curdle in his chest—an unfamiliar, suffocating heat.

And before he knew it, he was running after her.

—

She moved quickly through the dimly lit corridors, the echo of her footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the castle. He caught up to her before she reached the staircase, his hand snapping out to grip her wrist.

“Wait.”

She froze. Not because she wanted to, but because of him.

“Let go, Riddle.”

His jaw clenched. “Not until you look at me.”

She did. And it wrecked him.

There was no fire in her eyes now, none of the sharp wit or teasing defiance that usually made his blood rush. Only cold disappointment.