Boundless

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐬 𝐈 𝐍𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐚𝐯𝐞 (𝟕)

Olympia Malfoy

The day passed in a miserable blur.

Every class, every corridor, every seat in every room was a new tightrope to walk — balancing between being close enough to Sebastian not to raise suspicion, but far enough away that I didn't have to feel him next to me. It was ridiculous. And exhausting.

I saw the confusion in his face when I sat one chair over in Charms, pretending to be absorbed in my parchment. I caught the hurt flicker across his expression in Defence Against the Dark Arts when I slid into a different table entirely, claiming some excuse about better light. And during Potions, when he tried to pass me a note — some stupid joke we would normally laugh over — I didn't even open it. I just tucked it into my bag without looking at him.

Coward, a voice inside me hissed. Or maybe just trying to survive, another argued.

Pansy's words circled in my mind like vultures: "Talk to him. Get the answers you deserve."

By the time my last class ended, I felt wrung out, buzzing with so much nervous energy I could barely keep my books straight in my arms. I didn't even know where to start looking for Mattheo.

But fate, or maybe some twisted kind of luck, was on my side.

As I made my way across the courtyard, dodging groups of students heading to dinner, I spotted Enzo lounging by the stone fountain. He was tossing a Quaffle into the air lazily, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth like he knew something I didn't.

When he saw me, he caught the Quaffle in one hand and tilted his head. "Looking for Riddle?"

I froze, caught out. Then nodded stiffly.

Enzo's grin widened. "Quidditch pitch. Like he never bloody left."

I murmured a thank you—or maybe just a sound resembling one—and hurried off before I could overthink it.

—

Sure enough, when I reached the pitch, there he was.

Mattheo.

Laughing.

The sight of him punched the air from my lungs.

He stood with Theo and Blaise, lounging by the stands like they owned the place. Mattheo was tossing a Quaffle high into the air and catching it behind his back with ease, smirking at the younger students struggling through drills on the field.

He looked so alive — all teeth and laughter and gleaming dark hair ruffled by the late afternoon wind.

For a moment, I could have convinced myself that nothing had changed. That we were still fifteen, still sneaking out to the pitch after curfew to lie on the grass and make up constellations.

But the reality hit harder than any nostalgia.

The same scar slashed through his right eyebrow — the one he earned in a duel he refused to admit he lost, even when Pansy and I had cornered him for the truth weeks after. The same sharp jaw, the same arrogant tilt of his head, the same reckless fire in his eyes.

Except now... There were shadows there, too. Things he hadn't carried before.

I forced my legs to move.

Mattheo caught sight of me immediately. His smirk faltered — just for a second — before he dropped the Quaffle and turned fully to face me.

Theo elbowed him, muttering something under his breath, and Enzo just shook his head like he was watching a slow-moving explosion.

I didn't give them a chance to make it harder.

"Mattheo," I called out, voice stronger than I felt. "Can we talk? Alone?"

There was a beat of silence. Then Mattheo nodded, brushing past Theo without a word.

We walked a little ways off, just beyond the edge of the stands, where the grass met the trees.

I folded my arms, heart hammering so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

He stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his dark trousers, waiting. The setting sun caught the faint gold in his hair and the curve of his crooked smile.

God, he looked so him. It hurt.

I drew a shaky breath. No point dancing around it.

"Where have you been, Mattheo?" I demanded, voice sharp with all the things I had swallowed for years. "What happened to you?"

His mouth tightened.

"I couldn't come back," he said simply. "Not then."

"Why not?" I snapped, angrier than I meant to be. "You left without a word. You let me think— you let us think—"

"I know," he cut in, voice low. Rough. "I know what I did, Ollie. I didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice," I whispered.

He stepped closer, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him.

"My father made sure there wasn't," he said quietly. "I had to go. For your safety. For mine."

I blinked, the weight of his words pressing against me. Voldemort. The name neither of us ever said aloud.

The life Mattheo had been born into.

"I would have waited," I said hoarsely. "I would have understood if you'd told me."

"I know," he said again, softer this time. Regret etched deep into his face. "But I couldn't risk it. If he knew how much you meant to me..." His voice broke off, jaw clenching.

I stared at him.

Every part of me screaming to either slap him or kiss him, or run away before I shattered completely.

Instead, I reached into my bag.

Pulled out four small, carefully wrapped packages.

Mattheo's brow furrowed as he looked at them.

"I brought you birthday presents," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "And Christmas presents. Every year. I never stopped. I kept thinking... if you ever came back... maybe you'd want them."

He reached out, his hand brushing mine as he took the parcels.

It was electric — that touch. Like coming home. Like setting myself on fire.

He stared at the gifts like they were something precious. Something sacred.

"Ollie," he said, voice thick.

"Open them when you're ready," I said, stepping back before I could fall into him completely. "If you're ready."

I left him standing there — the boy who had broken my heart and somehow still held all the pieces — cradling the gifts meant for a future that never came.

And maybe... Just maybe... Still could.