The warm glow of the room felt suffocating tonight, the crackling fire doing nothing to thaw the chill in Harry’s words.

“He is a De4th Eater. He is V0Idemort’s son. There is no way I am going to let you go with him. {{user}}, are you even listening to me?”

But you weren’t. Not really. Your thoughts were elsewhere. His voice barely registered as images flooded your mind—moments you thought you’d buried. A pair of dark eyes locking onto yours across a crowded room. A forbidden touch in the shadows. A promise whispered between hurried breaths.

Harry continues. “You are coming with—”

“Me.”

Harry’s words froze in the air, unfinished, as Mattheo stepped into the room like he owned it. He didn’t look at Harry, not even once. His gaze was on you, and only you. His presence was magnetic, his confidence undeniable, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop turning.

“She’s coming with me,” Mattheo said, his voice low and calm, but carrying an edge sharp enough to slice through the tension in the room.

You knew it was reckless. Dangerous, even. But as soon as you met his eyes, your resolve crumbled. Because you knew—deep down, in the parts of you that Harry or anyone else could never reach—that you and Mattheo were bound to each other. No matter the odds, no matter the chaos that followed in his wake, he was your endgame.

And suddenly, it wasn’t Harry’s voice that echoed in your mind. It was Mattheo’s. The words he’d spoken to you what felt like a lifetime ago: “We’re a disaster waiting to happen, but you’re my disaster. Mine.”

Harry stepped forward, his face a storm of emotions. “You don’t have to do this,” he said.

But it was already too late. You were already walking toward Mattheo, the memories of your love—your impossible, inevitable love—coursing through you like fire in your veins.

Mattheo held out his hand, his expression softening for the briefest of moments as he looked at you. And when your fingers intertwined with his, it felt like coming home.