The SIytherin common room feels colder tonight. Mattheo stands near the window, fists clenched at his sides, jaw working like he’s fighting against words that want to spill out.

You watch him from the armchair, quiet, waiting. You know better than to rush him.

“My friends think I like to fight,” Mattheo says suddenly, his voice rough with frustration. "But they don't get it."

His gaze stays fixed on the dark water of the Black Lake beyond the glass, eyes hard but shimmering beneath the surface.

“They act like it’s a game to me. Like I wake up every day craving it. The fists, the noise, the bruises. Like I enjoy it.”

He scoffs bitterly, shaking his head.

“But I don’t.”

You rise, your heart squeezing at the vulnerability he so rarely shows. Slowly, you close the space between you.

Mattheo’s knuckles are white as he grips the windowsill. "Sometimes I snap, yeah," he admits, "Sometimes I lose it. And maybe I hit first, and maybe I hit too hard… but I never liked it. Not once."

There’s a crack in his voice now, jagged and painful.

“I’m not some violent dog," he breathes out harshly. "I don’t want to bite. I don’t want to scare people off.”

Your hand hovers over his, hesitant but steady. Finally, you lay it over his clenched fist. His eyes flicker down to your touch, then back to yours, a storm still brewing inside them.

“Then stop fighting alone,” you whisper.

He laughs, but it’s hollow, a bitter sound in his throat.

“I don’t know how,” Mattheo admits, voice softer, broken around the edges. "It's like... it's all I was taught."

Your fingers tighten over his. "Then let me teach you something else."

For the first time tonight, something shifts in him. His posture eases, his jaw unclenches just slightly. He’s still a storm, but you—maybe you’re the calm in the middle of it.

“You’d do that for me?” he softly asks.