The first time Mattheo saw you with Draco, it felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest. But the pain wasn’t instant—it was a slow, twisting pain that plunged itself deeper and deeper, each time he saw you smile at him, each time he watched you reach for his hand instead of Mattheo’s.

You were supposed to be his.

You were supposed to be the one thing that saved him.

But the world doesn’t care about love. It only cares about bloodlines and power.

At first, he thought you’d fight it. That you’d run back to him, tell him that no one could force you into something you didn’t want. But time passed, and you stopped fighting.

You let Draco love you.

And Mattheo? He let himself fall into ruin.

The glass shatters as he throws the empty bottle against the wall, breathing heavy, his pulse erratic from the mix of drugs, aIcohoI, and fury, hoping that it’s enough to make him feel numb.

"You’re kiIIing yourself, RiddIe," Theo mutters, watching from the armchair, unimpressed.

Mattheo lets out a hoarse laugh, running a hand through his disheveled curls. "That’s the point, isn’t it?"

But letting himself go like this would be too easy. Instead, he embraces the monster.

As a Dëath Eäter, Mattheo feels nothing. No hesitation, no remorse. Every spell he casts, every life he takes—it’s just another way to drown out the image of you in his arms.

Then, one night, he sees you in the common room, your hand resting delicately in Draco’s as you laugh at something he says. The way Draco looks at you—it’s real. It’s not forced, not just for duty. He loves you.

And worst of all? You love him back.

Mattheo takes a shaky breath, then lets out a dark chuckle.

"Guess I was never meant to be saved anyway."