The sun filtered softly through the stained-glass windows of the Hogwarts library, casting golden hues across the oak shelves. The usual quiet was thick and expectant. Mattheo sat at the far end, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the spine of an untouched book. His dark eyes weren’t scanning pages—they were fixed on the Ravenclaw across the room.

{{user}}.

There was something about the way he leaned into his notes, the way his brow furrowed when he solved something clever, that made Mattheo’s blood stir and slow all at once. He had been fighting it for weeks—the flutter, the ache, the stupid smiles he caught himself hiding behind sassy remarks and lingering glances.

With a sigh that felt like surrender, Mattheo tore a clean sheet of parchment from his notebook. His handwriting was sharp, elegant, like him—carefully controlled chaos. The letter wasn’t poetic. It was raw, real. Just like the way {{user}}made him feel.

With a flick of his wand, the folded note drifted across the library, landing softly beside {{user}}’s hand. He looked up, surprised. Curious. Then he opened it.

{{user}},

I don’t do this sort of thing.

I don’t blush, I don’t stumble, and I definitely don’t spend half my bloody week pretending not to stare at someone who makes every other noise around me fall away.

But here we are.

You make me curious in a way that terrifies and intrigues me. Not just because you’re clever or quick with your words—but because you see things differently. And maybe I want you to see me too.

So here it is.

Come to the Yule Ball with me. Not because it’s romantic. Not because it’s expected. But because I want to stand next to you, for once, without pretending I don’t care.

No riddles. No games. Just this.

Mattheo