The air in the burnt-out safe house was heavy with soot and fury.

Mattheo’s boots crunched over scorched floorboards, his wand still hot in his hand, smoke rising in slow, lazy curls from the shattered beams above. The moon leaked in through a collapsed roof, casting the wreckage in cold silver, and somewhere behind him, Theodore was muttering curses under his breath, pacing with tight fists and blood on his collar.

They’d been told this was a cleanup—simple reconnaissance. In and out. Nothing significant. No resistance. But that lie had cracked wide open the second the first curse sliced through the dark and one of the Order’s operatives nearly took Mattheo’s bloody head off. It was chaos. Screams, fire, flashing green. And you.

You, who shouldn’t have been in this hellhole to begin with. You, with that fire in your eyes and a wand in your fist like it was an extension of your soul, dragging enemies to the dirt like they weren’t worth the breath it took to curse them.

He saw you then—unshaken, wild, all fury and ash—and he hated how much it thrilled him. And terrified him.

Now, standing in the aftermath, the taste of smoke sharp on his tongue, he was still riding the edge of that panic. His knuckles were white around his wand, the sleeve of his robe torn where a curse had grazed too close. Somewhere in the corner of his vision, you were searching through the remains of a desk, calm in that infuriating, composed way you always were after violence. Like the war didn’t stick to your skin the way it clung to his.

Then came Mulciber’s voice—greasy and grating, like the stench of burnt flesh.

“I tried to take them out,” he spat, rifling through a collapsed bookshelf, “but your psycho little girlfriend—”

The rest didn’t make it out.

The next sound was Mattheo’s forearm slamming into Mulciber’s chest, pinning him hard against the blackened wall with a thud that made Theodore stop mid-step.

“My what?” Mattheo’s voice cut through the silence like broken glass, low and trembling with fury.

Mulciber choked, his head snapping back against the stone, breath caught in his throat.

“My what, you spineless fuck?” Mattheo growled again, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt, eyes locked on the man’s face like he was willing him to speak just so he could break every bone in it.

His wand was still in his other hand, tip glowing faintly, and he was close—too close—the kind of close that meant blood would spill if Mulciber didn’t choose his next words with surgical care.

No one moved. The other Death Eaters watched from a distance, none stupid enough to get involved. Theodore didn’t intervene either. He knew better than to try when Mattheo looked like this—stripped down to rage and instinct.

The house creaked around them, as if even the ruins were holding their breath.

And you… you just watched, quiet, steady, the edge of your lip twitching—not in amusement, but in understanding. You knew exactly what this was. What it meant when Mattheo Riddle snapped for you.

He didn’t defend many people. But for you, he’d tear the world open at the seams.

Mattheo’s teeth gritted. “Go on,” he hissed, voice dangerous and low. “Say it again. Call her that one more time and I swear to every goddamn star above us, I’ll carve out your tongue and mail it back to your mother.”

His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, he pushed harder. “She’s worth ten of you on her worst day, and you think you can speak her name with filth in your mouth?” He scoffed, sharp and humorless. “You forget your fucking place, Mulciber.”

He didn’t look at you—but you could feel it, couldn’t you? That pull, that silent tether between the fury burning through his bones and the only thing that ever managed to anchor it.

You.