Dust-motes drifted through the golden lamplight, swirling lazily above the long study tables in the Hogwarts library. Shelves soared overhead like cathedral walls, heavy with tomes that smelled of parchment and time. The place was hushed—only the soft rustle of turning pages and the scratch of quills broke the stillness.

Mattheo Riddle sat rigid in his chair, rolling a raven-feather quill between his fingers. Across from him, Hermione Grańger launched into yet another impassioned explanation of proper potion temperatures—her voice little more than a whisper, but still far too chirpy for his liking.

Why did I agree to this? he thought, jaw tightening. You were usually the one who drilled corrective notes into his skull, but tonight you were busy, leaving him to endure Miss Grańger’s relentless enthusiasm alone.

Hermione leaned forward, sliding a thick Potioneer’s Compendium across the table until it nudged his wrist. “Now, remember,” she murmured, brown eyes bright behind cascading curls, “Wormwood must steep precisely seven minutes before—”

Her hand “accidentally” grazed the back of his. A soft giggle slipped from her lips.

Mattheo’s fingers recoiled as though burned. He shot her a warning glare. She responded with an innocent smile, inching her chair a fraction closer.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to concentrate on the inked diagrams. Just get the information. Then leave.

But focus proved impossible. Every few moments Hermione brushed against him—reaching for a quill, smoothing a page, steadying a textbook she absolutely did not need to move. The scent of her lavender perfume crept across the old-book musk and made his nostrils flare in irritation.

At last, while turning a page of his own, her fingertips skimmed his yet again.

Mattheo snapped.

“Hermione,” he hissed, voice sharp but quiet enough not to draw Madam Pince’s wrath. “For the last time—stop. I’m here to study, not to be flirted with.”

She blinked, feigning surprise. “Oh, come on, Mattheo. It’s nothing—lighten up.” The coy lilt in her tone made his knuckles whiten around the book’s spine.

“Knock it off,” he said, leaning back, chair legs groaning under the sudden shift. “Either help me brew these potions or let me fail spectacularly. Your choice.”

Hermione’s smile faltered, irritation flickering in her eyes before she tucked a stray curl behind her ear. The tension lay between them like a drawn wand.

From the far end of the aisle came the faint squeal of a door’s iron hinge and the soft tread of footsteps on stone. Mattheo’s shoulders lifted—hope flickering wild in his chest. Could that be…? He kept his glare fixed on Hermione, but his pulse quickened, ears straining for the sound he’d know anywhere: your stride weaving through the stacks.

Lantern-light pooled at the row’s entrance as a figure paused in the archway.

Mattheo’s heart knocked hard against his ribs.

Hermione followed his line of sight, brow arched in sudden curiosity.

“Expecting someone?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. The quill stilled in his fingers, ink drying on the nib as he waited to see whether salvation—or more chaos—had just stepped into the library.