You had only stopped by the infirmary to drop off a forgotten potion vial for Madam Pomfrey.

Nothing more.

The place smelled of healing herbs and fresh linen, quiet except for the soft rustle of curtains.

Then you heard it—a low groan from behind one of the beds.

Mattheo Riddle.

He was propped up against pillows, Quidditch robes still damp with sweat and grass stains, a fresh bandage wrapped around his head.

A nasty Bludger to the skull during practice, they said.

Concussion.

His dark eyes fluttered open as you set the vial down on the side table.

They focused on you—slowly, hazily—and something shifted in his expression.

A lazy, relieved smile spread across his bruised face.

“There you are, baby…” he murmured, voice rough and a little slurred.

He reached out, fingers brushing your wrist with surprising strength.

“I knew you’d come. Always do when I’m like this.”

You froze.

You weren’t his girlfriend.

You shared her name, sure—and maybe the same hair color, the same general look from a distance—but you were just another Slytherin student.

Not the girl who usually sat beside him at meals.

The concussion had clearly blurred the lines in his mind.

Mattheo tugged you gently closer, eyes half-lidded with pain and affection.

“Missed you on the pitch today. Come here… let me see that pretty face properly.”

He pulled you down to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours like it belonged there.

The warmth of his palm, the familiar scent of broom polish and cologne—it felt dangerously real.

“You always make everything better,” he whispered, thumb tracing circles on your skin.

“Even when my head’s pounding like this. My girl… always right where I need you.”

He leaned in, forehead nearly touching yours, completely convinced in his foggy state.

“Stay with me a while? Don’t leave yet, love. Tell me about your day while I’m stuck here.”