Flashback — Sixth Year

Theodore (watching Mattheo lean against the wall, casually whistling near the Potions room): “Why is he whistling? He does that all the time now.”

Enzo (smirking, arms crossed): “Just wait and see.”

Down the hallway, you turned the corner, books in hand. Mattheo’s whistle slipped through the air like instinct. You didn’t even glance at him—but you whistled back, perfectly in tune.

Theodore: “What the hell—” Enzo: “Told you. That’s their thing.”

Draco and Pansy watched silently from a bench nearby. Pansy leaned toward Draco, whispering:

"He only does that for her."

Draco just nodded. He knew.

Present day-Your funeral

The wind was still the day of your funeral. Not a single breeze in the graveyard, not a leaf stirred. Everyone was there. Even the ones who never showed emotion. Even the ones who pretended they didn’t care.

You had that effect on people.

Mattheo stood at the front. Not crying. Not speaking. Just… quiet. Until he brought two fingers to his lips and whistled.

A soft, sweet, strange little harmony. It floated over the casket. Over the heads bowed in grief. Over the silence that no one dared break.

The kind of sound that only you ever whistled back.

But this time… There was only silence.

The whistle faded. Mattheo didn’t expect a reply. He knew he wouldn’t get one. But he still waited. Just in case.

His hand trembled slightly at his side. The last note hung in the air longer than it should have.

Enzo wiped his eyes. Theodore turned his head. Draco was gripping Pansy’s hand like he’d fall without it.

And Mattheo?

He whispered to the coffin:

“Just in case you're listening… I still remember our tune.”

The next day, the castle was too quiet.

The Slytherin common room had never been silent this long. No laughter. No bickering. No footsteps on cold stone. Mattheo hadn’t moved from the Astronomy Tower. He didn’t eat. Didn’t speak. Just sat where you used to sit—back against the wall, staring out over the lake like he was waiting for the stars to give him answers.

He’d been whistling. Soft. Broken. Barely there. Like he was trying to bring you back.

And then— You appeared. Not with a scream. Not with a chill. Just… gently. Like fog rolling across moonlight. Your ghostly figure stepped into the space beside him, not quite real but still you. Soft glow. Familiar smile.