Mattheo Riddle sat in the corner of the grand Malfoy Manor ballroom, the flickering light of the chandelier reflecting off his dark eyes. The manor was alive with laughter and music, though he found no solace in the festive atmosphere. Christmas at Malfoy Manor was as extravagant as ever, with pureblood families gathered in their finest robes, sipping enchanted drinks and exchanging shallow pleasantries.

Mattheo hated it. Hated the charade, hated the whispers that followed him wherever he went, and hated the weight of his father’s name crushing him like a vice. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the drink in his glass, letting the sound of forced cheer wash over him without truly hearing it.

“Brooding doesn’t suit you, you know.”

Mattheo’s head snapped up at the sound of the voice. There you stood, the hem of your elegant green dress skimming the polished floor, a smirk playing on your lips. Your gaze was bold, unwavering, and entirely unafraid — something Mattheo wasn’t used to.

“Malfoy,” he greeted, his tone clipped but intrigued. “Shouldn’t you be off entertaining your guests?”