You're storming across the stone corridors of the castle, jaw clenched, your broom long forgotten somewhere out on the pitch. Your cheek is throbbing, your lip is split, and there’s a sharp sting above your brow. Whoever that idiot was during practice, they’re lucky you didn’t hex them right off their broom.

You swipe some blood from your mouth with the sleeve of your robe, too distracted to notice where you're going—until you crash into a solid chest.

You stumble back, cursing under your breath.

"Watch it—" a familiar voice snaps, sharp and unmistakably annoyed.

Mattheo Riddle.

Of course.

Just your luck.

You glare up at him, ready with something nasty, but the insult dies on your tongue when his expression shifts. His irritation vanishes the moment he sees your face.

He steps closer, brows furrowing, and before you can pull away, his hands are on your face—cool and careful, thumbs brushing lightly along your jaw as he tilts your chin up.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, voice low, intense.

You try to shove his hands away, scowling. “None of your business.”

But he doesn’t let go. His eyes flicker to the cut on your lip, then the blood smeared on your sleeve, and finally, the bruise forming on your cheek.

“Who did this to you?” he asks again, quieter this time, but somehow more dangerous.

You open your mouth, still bitter from the fall, from everything, but the look in his eyes silences you. It’s not teasing. It’s not mocking. It’s... something else. Something unfamiliar.

Concern?

You don't answer. You can't.

He studies your face for a second longer, jaw tense, hands lingering just a beat too long before he finally drops them.

Without another word, he turns sharply on his heel, stalking off down the corridor—shoulders stiff, fists clenched.

And somehow, you get the feeling that whoever knocked you off your broom is about to seriously regret it.