The Slug Club dinner had been unbearable.

Cormac McLaggen and his friends spent most of it whispering crude jokes about your body, laughing behind half-filled goblets of mead like it was some private comedy show. You’d tried to ignore it, tried to stay composed, but the way Cormac's eyes roamed your figure made your skin crawl.

You were just about to make up an excuse to leave when he leaned in, too close, his hand sliding under the table to grab your thigh. He squeezed, hard, flashing you a grin like he thought you’d enjoy it.

Your blood turned to ice.

Before you could react, Slughorn’s booming laugh called Cormac’s attention elsewhere. You didn’t wait—you took the distraction and fled, forcing yourself to walk instead of run, pulse pounding in your ears as you headed straight for the dungeons.

But no matter how far you got from that table, his touch lingered like a stain on your skin. Your stomach twisted with nausea, your chest tight. You wiped at your face quickly, angry at yourself for letting tears prick your eyes. You just needed to make it to the dorms. Just a few more steps.

Then, you turned the corner—and slammed right into someone.

You stumbled back, eyes wide.

Mattheo Riddle.

Of course.

He steadied you instinctively, his hands firm at your arms before he caught the look on your face. The tears. The trembling.

“Matt... they—” you start, your voice barely above a whisper, cracking under the weight of it.

His entire expression shifts.

Gone is the usual smirk, the calm indifference. His gaze sharpens like a blade, eyes narrowing as his jaw locks.

“Names,” he says, his voice ice-cold. “Now.”

There’s a fury in him that makes the hallway feel darker. Not performative. Not protective for show.

Real.

And for the first time since that table, you feel like someone sees you—really sees you—and you’re not alone.