The library is nearly empty. You sit cross-legged across from Mattheo, piles of worn parchment between you, his brow furrowed in deep concentration.

He's quiet tonight, more than usual, his fingers tapping the edge of the desk as you point to the same word again: "Potions."

He stares at it, lips parted, silent.

"Sound it out again," you whisper, not pushing, just waiting.

He glances up at you, and there it is — that flicker of shame in his eyes. "I don’t know how," he says, voice rough, edged in frustration that isn't aimed at you. "Every time I think I’ve got it, the letters just... melt."

You reach out, gently taking his hand. His knuckles are rough — evidence of the fights he doesn’t talk about. You trace your finger under the word again, slowly. "P-o-t..." you say.

He follows, quietly repeating after you. His voice is uncertain, but there's something in it — a determination that breaks your heart a little.

You see how hard he’s trying.

"You’re not stupid," you say, before he can say it himself. "You were just never taught. That’s not your fault."

Mattheo looks down at your intertwined hands. His voice drops. "I didn't want you to know. Figured you'd think I was just some... dumb boy who can’t read, but can throw a punch."

"I already knew," you say softly. "And I think you're one of the bravest people I know."

He laughs under his breath, his eyes glassy. "Don’t say that. I’ve done things..."

You let the silence fall again, but it’s different now — heavier.

"You help those first-years," you say. "The ones scared out of their minds. You sit with them in the common room and quiz them on wand movements. They don’t see a monster."

"I don’t want them to be scared of me like I was scared of... everyone," he admits. "If someone had just... given a damn back then—"

"I give a damn now," you say. "So start here. With me."

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s steadying himself. Then he nods.

Later, when the castle is asleep, you wake to the sound of rustling.

Mattheo is at the foot of your bed, breathless.

"Mattheo?" you ask, voice hoarse from sleep.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Instead, he hide his forearm.

He’s tried every spell, every potion, every charm to make the mark go away. But it never does.

“I tried again,” he whispers. “I thought maybe if I hated it enough...”

You sit up, moving closer. You press your hand over his. “You can’t do anything, love. You can only make peace with it.”

He lets out a shuddering breath. “It’s easier when you’re here.”