The battle in Diagon Alley is chaos—screams, smoke, fire, spells flying like sparks from a broken wand. You don’t see the explosion coming. One second you’re charging forward, wand raised, the next, you’re on the ground, a searing pain ripping through your hip. Blood pools fast, hot and sticky beneath you. You try to crawl into the shadow of a crumbling alleyway, teeth clenched, vision swimming.

Everything's loud—until it isn’t.

Boots pound against the cobblestones, closer. You twist, wand shaking in your hand, ready for whoever’s coming. But it’s him.

Mattheo Riddle.

You hadn't spoken much at Hogwarts—he always had that cold stare, always thought he was better than you. You never liked him. He never liked you. Or so you thought.

He drops to his knees beside you, his eyes sharp, scanning the wound. "You're losing too much blood," he mutters, almost angry—at the situation, or at you, you're not sure.

You try to laugh, but it comes out a pained gasp. “No shit, Riddle.”

He ignores the jab, tearing a strip from his cloak, pressing it hard against your wound. You flinch, swearing, but he holds steady. "You're not dying here," he says, more like a command than a comfort.

You look at him, really look at him—smudged with ash, a cut above his brow, hair wild from the fight. But there’s something else in his expression. Not pity. Not duty. Something... human.

Maybe the battlefield has changed more than the world. Maybe it's changed people, too.