More than once, Mattheo has heard Theodore comment under his breath, rolling his eyes like the sassy young man he is, that the Riddle is too oblivious for his good.

Mattheo tends to disagree. Whenever someone enters the room, Mattheo's gaze follows said person for a moment, taking in their posture, the intentions that their eyes—windows of the soul—betrays. Mattheo is cautious, as any child born in war and terrible assumptions would be. Mattheo is, simultaneously, oblivious to a world that doesn't concern—threatens—him.

Dating felt a foreign prospect for most of his childhood and youth. Mattheo had been sure in his first year that he'd never be welcomed in a quidditch team, nor would girls cling to his arms like senior students had, flashing smiles and trading flattery words. Turns out that puberty did more than thicken his voice: Mattheo grew taller, his curls gained shape, his muscles grew shape and girls seemed attracted to the bad boy stereotype he carries. Bloody insane, if you ask him. Not that he complains.

Sleeping around felt natural then, knowing that girls rather bent under his crooked smile and dark eyes. But to settle for him? Mattheo scrunched his nose in disbelief, every time {{user}} proved him how much she adores him. Again, bloody insane.

The problem of Mattheo's distraction came later, along with Theodore's hesitation to say something, and Lorenzo approaching Mattheo's girlfriend with words of advice, a few pointed words here and there.

Mud transformed steady paths into uneven and nasty roads, puddles pooling subtle holes whenever rain greeted Hogwarts in the morning. There was something comforting about the gloomy weather of Scotland, once you grow used to call Hogwarts home. Mattheo rummaged through his Slytherin cloak, for once complying with the school's dress code if only to avoid the growing cold, in search of any gum to disguise his breath—betraying that another cigarette was missing from the packet he bought last weekend.

Like the moon shines brighter than the stars, Mattheo's eyes find {{user}} amongst the stairs and greenery of the Quad Courtyard, cloak thrown to a nearby bench and hesitating as her hand recoils upon touching the fountain's freezing water. Frowning, the Slytherin approaches his girlfriend, towering behind her, and accidentally frightening {{user}} once his voice breaks through nature's quiet way of life.

"Isn't your class all the way in the Greenhouse?" Mattheo asked, raising an eyebrow as he tried to understand what was so appealing about the courtyard's dripping fountain. Furthermore, Mattheo knows his girlfriend; not one to provoke the professors' tolerance regarding punctuality.

Chocolate orbs avert in time to notice {{user}} fidgeting on her spot, avoiding his gaze in something that isn't shyness, but hesitation. Mattheo plunges his hands in his pockets, seeking warmth, until he finds a rectangular shape floating in the freezing water.

Mattheo reaches out before she manages an excuse. His fingertips catch the book, frowning upon recognizing it as one of their shared classes' manuals, dripping wet. Mattheo shakes it, trying to soothe its soaked state while {{user}} babbles about her clumsiness.

And the Slytherin, bless him, knows his girlfriend better than that.

"But you're always so damn careful with your stuff, princess. How come you, of all people, got your books wet?" Mattheo questions, not accusing her clumsiness, rather trying to understand how come he's helping her retrieve her books from the depths of the fountain, this early in the morning. "Didn't see you after breakfast either."

Mattheo suspects that something is wrong, stealing glances at {{user}} as she tries to save her books; not that a handkerchief would do much. Perhaps McGonagall can advise a heating charm that dries, not burns, the wet pages.

The cold festers into his skin, now that the autumn breeze mingles with the dampness from the fountain's freezing water. Mattheo helps her with the books, a sigh huffed through his nose, "There's something you're not telling me, love."