Cormac McLaggen is an idiot—that much has always been obvious. Loud, arrogant, and completely unaware of boundaries. But last night at the Slug Club, he crossed a line. What started as his usual unbearable flirting turned into something darker when he slid his hand onto your thigh without warning, without permission.

You left immediately, your stomach twisting with anger and disgust.

The next morning, the Slytherin boys noticed your mood before you even opened your mouth. When they pressed, you hesitated—but only for a moment. They were your friends, after all, and they weren’t the type to let things like this slide. So, you told them.

You didn’t expect anything to come of it.

By midday, word spreads—Cormac McLaggen is in the hospital wing. Concussion. Swollen lip. Possibly a broken nose. You blink at the news, a little too long. Strange.

It isn’t until later, when you’re walking through one of the quieter corridors near the dungeons, that everything clicks into place.

You turn a corner and there he is—Mattheo Riddle.

He doesn’t see you right away, too busy cracking his knuckles, his other hand tucked in his robe pocket. There’s a cut on his cheekbone, a bruise blooming around one eye, and his right hand is swollen, red, the skin split open in places.

He looks up—and freezes.

So do you.

You don’t say anything, but your eyes lock, and in that instant, you know.

The silence is heavy, thick with unspoken truths. Your breath catches, realisation running hot and electric through your veins.