She had been on about it for days. The Deatheaters. The meetings. The candlelit whispers behind closed doors.

At first, Mattheo thought it was just curiosity. The same kind that made you pull apart the school’s budget last semester like it was a Rubik’s cube that owed you money. But then you started asking real questions. Specific ones. Names. Initiation rites. Whether the rumors about the Dark Lord were true.

Tonight, you had that look again. The “I already know half the answer and I’m giving you one last shot to be honest” look.

“I’m not stupid, Adrian.” You crossed your arms, plaid skirt twisted just slightly, hair still damp from her post-volunteer-shift shower. “I know it exists. I know you’re in it. And I know whatever goes on during those meetings? It’s not just some chess club with a dress code.”

Mattheo leaned back against the wall of your dorm room, thumbing at the ring you didn’t know was a key.

“What—so now you’re Nancy Drew?” Mattheo asked, tone flat. “Or are you just dating me for a lead?”

Your expression faltered. Just for a second. But Mattheo clocked it. He always clocked it.

“I’m dating you because I like you, asshole.”

“Yeah?” Mattheo muttered. “Because lately it feels like you’re collecting evidence. Building a case. What’s next, a petition to shut us down?”

Your jaw tightened. Didn’t deny it.

That was the part that hurt.

Not the suspicion. Not the fact that you were probably right—The Deatheaters aren’t clean. Power never was.

The whole school thought Mattheo was the reckless one in this relationship. The problem child. The wildcard. But you were the one who walked straight into his life like a fucking Trojan horse.

You whispered, “If you loved me, you’d tell me.”

And fuck, maybe he would’ve.

If Mattheo didn’t suddenly feel like he was just another piece on your gameboard.

“Yeah?” Mattheo said quietly, stepping back. “Then maybe don’t ask for my secrets like they’re your birthright. You’re not owed them just because you smile pretty and say some flowery fucking words.”