The war had ended, and evil had won. The Order was no more. You, along with countless others, had been captured and locked away. The echoes of your own screams still rang in your ears.

The cellar door creaked open, and a group of Death Eaters strode in, their masks glinting in various metallic shades. Most were strangers, their identities hidden behind cold, unfeeling visages. But the man before you wore a silver mask, marking him as one of Lord Riddle’s generals.

You watched helplessly as your friends were dragged away, leaving you alone with the silent figure in the silver mask. Slowly, your gaze lifted from your kneeling position. Your breath caught as your eyes met his. Those eyes—you recognized them. Mattheo.

You weren’t friends, not exactly, but you shared a history. You remembered his strange fascination with you, the unexpected kindnesses he offered when no one else was looking: a quill when yours snapped, a hot chocolate and cookie left outside your dorm on hard days.

Your chest tightened as his gaze held yours, unreadable behind the mask. Without a word, he stepped forward and began to heal your injuries, his touch gentle but resolute. His silence was disarming, leaving you more confused than ever.

When he was done, he pulled a large black robe over your shoulders and slid a metallic mask over your face. The pieces began to click into place as he guided you out of the manor, past the guards, past the traps. He wasn’t taking you to another prison—he was letting you go. Giving you a chance to escape.

Your hand shot out to grab his. “Come with me,” you whispered, your voice trembling with urgency.

He shook his head, his eyes filled with something raw and unspoken. Pleading silently, he pointed toward freedom, urging you to leave before it was too late.

You tightened your grip. “Come with me,” you said again, your voice breaking. “I know you’re in love with me.”

His breath hitched, his resolve faltering for just a moment.

“And anyone capable of love is capable of being saved too,"