It’s become almost comical at this point. Countless boys have worked up the nerve to approach you. Each one starting with that nervous half-smile, shuffling feet, a question forming on their lips. And without fail, every single one of them falters mid-sentence, their faces paling as if they’ve seen something terrifying. They stammer an excuse, mutter something about forgetting their books, and walk off in a rush.

Today is no different. You turn to see yet another boy fleeing down the corridor, his ears burning red. But this time, you catch the real reason.

Mattheo stands a few feet behind you, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. His gaze is the kind of look that could strıp a person second guess their whole life's decision. No words, no wands, just that infamous Riddle stare.

You march toward him, crossing your arms. “You keep scaring off any guy who wants to ask me out.”

Mattheo scoffs, tilting his head like the accusation is absurd. “I don’t even do anything.”

“Don’t do anything?” you repeat, incredulous. “You stare at them like you’re about to hex them into next week.”

His shoulders rise in a lazy shrug, his smirk curling at the edge. “If all it takes is a look to make them run, then they’re clearly not the one for you, Trouble.”