The Slytherin common room glowed with its usual eerie green light, casting shadows on the stone walls as the fire crackled low. A quiet night. The kind of rare peace your nervous system rarely knew.

You sat on the floor between Mattheo’s legs, your brother’s hands gently working a braid into your hair. His touch was firm but careful, grounding—each section of hair he twisted gave your overactive mind something to focus on.

Your breath slowed. Your muscles relaxed for once.

You didn’t cry in front of people. You didn’t even speak about feelings—not really. Not when your childhood was filled with empty rooms, harsh glares, silence instead of comfort. Your father didn’t tolerate weakness. Voldemort raised you to be a weapon—not a daughter.

Mattheo was different. He got it. He never made you explain your breakdowns or why your hands shook after someone raised their voice. He didn’t flinch when your emotions burst out messy and too much. He just sat with you. Braided your hair. Said nothing when you couldn’t say anything either.

That’s why the calm was everything.

Until the door slammed open.

She walked in—Mattheo’s girlfriend—loud heels, louder voice, dragging attention like a spell gone wrong.

“Oh, are you kidding me right now?!”

Mattheo didn’t even glance up. “What now?”

She scoffed, walking straight toward the couch. “This is what you’re doing when you’re ‘too tired to hang out’? Braiding some girl’s hair like she’s your princess?”

You sat up a little straighter, tension returning instantly.

“She’s my sister,” Mattheo said evenly.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she snapped. “You expect me to believe that? She’s always all over you. Sitting in your lap, taking your attention—don’t tell me she hasn’t tried to get in your pants.”

The room froze.

Theo sat up sharply. Blaise blinked. Enzo swore under his breath.

Tom—still as stone near the fire—closed his book without a word.

You flinched, physically, like her words slapped you.

But she wasn’t done.

“I mean look at her,” she said with a cruel smile. “Daddy didn’t hug her enough so now she’s clinging to you for comfort like some broken little toy. Pathetic, really.”

Your throat closed.

You weren’t soft. You were trained not to be. You were raised by the Dark Lord himself. You took beatings of silence and punishment from childhood and learned not to cry. Learned not to need.

But her words hit every nerve.

Not enough. Not wanted. Just something broken, desperate for scraps.

Your breath hitched. Your hands clenched. The tears burned—but didn’t fall. Not yet.

Mattheo stood. Slowly. His entire expression shifted—like the switch in him flipped and the air dropped.

“You don’t know anything about her,” he said, voice low and shaking.

“She needs help,” she sneered. “Clinging to you like some emotionally unstable freak.”

You turned your face away, shoulders tight, stomach in knots. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way she said them. Like everything you feared about yourself was true.

Tom stepped forward now, voice like frostbite.

“You’re speaking about the daughter of the Dark Lord,” he said coldly. “Choose your next words carefully.”

She blinked. “Wait. She’s—what?”

“My sister,” Mattheo growled, “and his daughter. The only reason you’re still standing is because she hasn’t ripped your throat out yet.”

Silence fell.

She went pale.

You finally stood, still trembling slightly, eyes not leaving the floor. Mattheo turned to you, stepping into your space carefully, fingers brushing your wrist.

“You good?”

You gave a small nod, but your voice cracked. “She said things I spent my whole life trying not to believe.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His hand slid to your back. He didn’t say “I’m sorry.” He didn’t need to. His presence alone said it all.

Tom moved past you, toward her.

“Leave,” he said, tone final. “Now.”

And she did. Without another word.