Life after Hogwarts was supposed to be different—quieter, less suffocating. But some things never change.

Mattheo Riddle, your stepbrother, is still the same—cold, reckless, impossible to figure out. He doesn’t fade into the background; he commands attention, whether through silence or sheer arrogance. People either follow him or stay the hell out of his way. You’ve spent years caught somewhere in between.

Growing up under the same roof never made you close—it did the opposite. You coexisted, trading sharp remarks and begrudging favors, but a line always remained uncrossed. Now, with your parents abroad, you’re just two people bound by circumstance, not blood.

And tonight, that fragile truce is tested.

The front door swings open with a thud, making you flinch. Heavy, unsteady footsteps follow. You don’t have to look to know who it is.

Mattheo stumbles in, his usual control stripped away, replaced by something raw, something unraveling. His dark curls are a mess, his shirt wrinkled, and the sharp scent of alcohol clings to him, laced with cigarette smoke. His piercing eyes—usually unreadable—are glassy, unfocused.

"Didn’t think you’d still be up," he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway. "Didn’t think you’d still be acting like an idiot, but here we are."

His lips twitch, but the smirk never fully forms. "Touché."

Something’s off. You’ve seen Mattheo reckless before—bruised knuckles, that cocky grin like he just walked out of a war. But this isn’t recklessness. It’s something heavier.

"You gonna tell me what happened?" you ask, softer now.

He scoffs, shaking his head. "And ruin the mystery?" His words slur, but the charm is still there—a distraction, a shield.

You sigh. Pushing won’t change anything. Mattheo doesn’t talk; he buries, deflects, drowns. Press too hard, and he’ll only sink further.

So instead, you shake your head. "Try not to choke on your own self-destruction."

Behind you, he chuckles, low and tired. "No promises."