The Christmas holidays had emptied Hogwarts in a way that felt almost unnatural. Corridors that were usually alive with gossip and hurried footsteps now echoed softly, enchanted candles burning low as if even the castle itself had decided to rest. Nearly every student had gone home, scattered across Britain and beyond, wrapped in warmth and family and safety.

The Nott manor was old, cold, and built to keep secrets. Thick stone walls muffled sound, dark wood panels absorbed whispers, and the air always carried the faint scent of old magic and polished floors. It should have been comforting. It should have been easy to hide here.

Except Theodore Nott never went anywhere without his friends.

Your bedroom was tucked away on the upper floor, overlooking the snow covered gardens. Frost clung to the windowpanes, tracing delicate patterns you had long since memorized. A half opened book rested in your lap, words blurring together no matter how many times you reread the same paragraph. You were meant to be revising. You were meant to be thinking about anything other than the way your stomach tightened every time you heard his voice.

Laughter drifted up from downstairs, loud and careless, bouncing off the walls. Theo’s dry amusement was easy to recognize, followed by Blaise’s lazy drawl and Draco’s scoff. And then there was him.

Mattheo Riddle’s laugh was sharper than the others, darker somehow, threaded with danger and confidence. It slid under your skin without permission, settling there like it had every time since the mistake that was not really a mistake began.

You exhaled slowly, pressing your thumb into the edge of the page until it bent. Focus. You could not afford to be distracted. Not here. Not when your brother was only a staircase away.

Keeping it secret had always been difficult, but lately it felt impossible. Mattheo had grown bolder, more reckless. Lingering glances held too long. Fingers brushing yours in passing. Murmured comments meant only for you, spoken just loudly enough to make your heart stutter. As if he wanted you to slip. As if he enjoyed the risk of being caught.

You were just about to close the book when the door swung open without so much as a knock.

Mattheo stood in the doorway like he owned the place, one shoulder pressed against the frame, dark hair slightly mussed as if he had run a hand through it one too many times. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his forearms, and his expression was relaxed in that infuriating way that suggested he knew exactly what effect he had on people. On you.

His eyes found yours immediately.

“Well,” he said finally, voice low and amused, lips curling into that familiar smirk. “That was easy.”

You snapped the book shut, sitting up straighter. “What are you doing in here?” you hissed, glancing toward the hallway as if Theo might appear at any second.

Mattheo’s gaze flicked to the door briefly before returning to you, unbothered. “Relax. They’re arguing about Quidditch. Won’t notice I’m gone for a while.”

He stepped inside and nudged the door shut with his foot. Not fully. Just enough.

“You can’t just walk in here,” you said, though your voice lacked the bite you intended. “If my brother finds you in my room…”

He pushed himself off the frame and took a few slow steps toward you, each one deliberate. “If your brother finds me,” he replied softly, “we’ll deal with it.”

He stopped a few feet away, close enough that you could smell him, something warm and familiar, something that made your thoughts scatter. His expression shifted, smirk fading into something more serious, more intense.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.

You scoffed lightly. “I’ve been busy.”

“Liar.”

The word was not cruel. It was fond. Dangerous.

Mattheo tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle only he was allowed to solve. “You know,” he murmured, “for someone who wants this to stay secret, you’re doing a terrible job pretending you don’t miss me.”

Your breath hitched before you could stop it.