The first snow of December was falling in languid, grey-edged flakes against the window of Mattheo’s penthouse, and you were armed with a list. The scrawled, heartfelt wishes of twelve anonymous children from the Angel Tree at the local community centre.
“A racing bike? Not just a bike, but a racing bike,” Mattheo read aloud, his voice a low, velvet murmur that did not quite mask his incredulity. He was leaning against the marble kitchen island, dressed in all black, a stark slash of night against the sterile white. “This is demand number seven. Are we funding a small militia?”
You smiled, not looking up from your tablet where you were cross-referencing the best-reviewed Lego sets. “It’s for an eight-year-old named Leo. He wants to feel the wind, it says so right there. And we’re not funding a militia, we’re funding childhood. There’s a difference, love.”
He made a soft, dismissive sound, tch, but his eyes followed you as you moved. He had that particular brand of Riddle stillness, a predator’s patience that most people found unnerving. You found it endearing, especially when it was directed at you while you were debating the emotional merits of a Baby Alive doll.
“You do this every year,” he stated, as if it were a curious, slightly irrational habit he was still trying to catalogue. “You spend a small fortune on strangers.”
“I do,” you agreed, tapping ‘add to cart’ on a truly enormous set of artist’s pencils for a girl named Sofia. “And this year, you’re not just funding it. You’re participating. Get your coat, Matt. We’re going to Harrods.”
The look he gave you was pure, unadulterated Slytherin heir; a raised eyebrow, a slight curl of his lip. “The muggle citadel of consumerism? Darling, you do know I have people who can people this for me.”
“No people,” you said firmly, walking over to him. You placed your hands on the cool silk of his shirt, feeling the lean muscle beneath. He was all sharp angles and coiled tension, a sonnet written in minor keys. “Just you and me. It’s called the spirit of giving. Try it on. It might suit you.”
He leaned down, his nose brushing against your temple, his breath warm against your ear. “The only spirit I’m interested in is the one currently warming the brandy in my study,” he murmured, but his arms had slipped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “But for you, cara mia, I will brave the… plebeian hordes.”
Harrods at Christmas time was a overwhelming assault on the senses. The air was thick with the scent of mulled wine and expensive perfume, and every surface glittered, a symphony of gold and crimson. Mattheo moved through the crowds like a shark through shallow water, his presence creating a subtle, unconscious ripple. People just… moved.
He was silent as you two navigated the toy department, his thumb tracing idle circles on your palm, over the ring he’d placed there; a dark, obsolute stone set in obsidian that seemed to drink the light.