The castle was quieter after an Order meeting. Quieter, and colder.

You wandered the dim corridors with the weight of war clinging to your robes, thoughts still knotted with whispered plans and half-spoken fears. The others had gone back to their common rooms, their beds, their secrets. But you couldn’t rest—not with the memory of strategy maps burning behind your eyes and the sound of your brother’s voice promising, “We’ll be ready this time.”

You drifted toward the library out of habit, drawn by the silence and the vague hope of stillness. But the Restricted Section was already lit.

Your steps slowed.

Someone was there.

And then you saw him—seated like sin itself, legs stretched out, a book resting forgotten in his lap. Mattheo Riddle. He didn’t move when you entered. Didn’t look up. But somehow, you knew he was aware of you the second you stepped into the room.

He always was.

He looked different in the low light—sharper, more dangerous. His dark brown curls fell loose over his forehead, softening the brutal angles of his face. There was stubble along his jawline, just enough to look deliberate. Pale skin, shadowed eyes, a scar slicing down from his right cheekbone to the edge of his jaw—it should’ve made him look broken. Instead, it made him look like someone who survived the breaking.

And still, that maddening calm. That quiet, calculated stillness.

You didn’t smirk. You didn’t speak.

But he did.

His voice broke the silence like a spell. Low. Smooth. And far too pleased to find you there.

“I was starting to think you only watched me when you thought I wasn’t looking, Weasley.”