As a child, you used to look up at Tom with wide eyes full of admiration, trailing behind him in the corridors of the manor or the school grounds, always saying, "I want to be just like you when I grow up, Tom."

Tom would smirk down at you, a hint of pride in his gaze. "Do you now?" he'd ask, his voice as smooth as silk, never once discouraging the idea, as if he relished the thought of molding you into something darker, something more like him.

But Mattheo? He couldn't stand it. He'd be leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, always watching from a distance. He never liked hearing those words come from your mouth. "You don’t know what you’re saying," Mattheo would mutter under his breath, his jaw tense, already wanting to protect you from a path he knew far too well.

Years later, you are watching Tom cast a particularly powerful spell. "I want to be just like you, Tom."

Mattheo can’t hold back anymore. He pulls you aside after Tom has left, gripping your shoulders a little tighter than usual, his dark eyes serious and almost pleading. "No, you don't. Trust me, you don't want that. I don't want that for you."

"But why?" you ask, confused, not fully understanding Mattheo’s apprehension.

"Because," Mattheo says quietly, glancing in the direction Tom had disappeared, his voice almost a whisper, "being like him comes with a price, one you shouldn’t have to pay. You deserve more than what he’s offering."