Mattheo Riddle was feared, hated even. Whispers trailed behind him like shadows in the dim halls of Hogwarts. "Dangerous," they murmured. "Unstable." His name was spoken in hushed tones, his scarred face the stuff of cautionary tales. He didn’t care—not about their stares, their words, or the wide berth they gave him. At least, that’s what he told himself.

You were the opposite. Not popular, but liked. Friendly. Easy to be around. People gravitated to you, soothed by your quiet warmth. You didn’t demand attention, but you always seemed to have it. Mattheo had noticed. How could he not? But he stayed away. People like you didn’t mix with people like him.

The evening sky was painted in bruised shades of purple and gold as Mattheo sat on the railing of the Astronomy Tower, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Dried blood crusted along his knuckles and smeared his shirt, a memento of another fight. His expression was blank, but his eyes—those deep, haunted eyes—held storms no one dared face.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, the ash glowing faintly in the twilight. Below, the grounds stretched out, vast and empty. He leaned forward slightly, his balance unnervingly casual. Was he thinking about jumping? Maybe. Maybe not.

The wind tugged at his curls as he stared into the abyss, emotionless yet suffocating under the weight of something no one would ever understand. He was alone, just as he always had been. And perhaps, just as he always would be.