Boundless

𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 (𝟒𝟔)

Mattheo

Time moved differently now.

Months blurred together in a haze of missions, whispered orders, and late nights spent mapping out the plan that would change everything. The Dark Lord's vision was unfolding, piece by piece, and I was one of the many hands shaping it.

Infiltrating the Ministry had been a slow, methodical process—corrupting officials, planting spies, moving in the shadows where no one could see us coming. I spent weeks at a time slipping into places I never should have been, watching as the war dug its claws deeper into the world.

I had always known this was coming.

It didn't make it any easier.

But I had a role to play. A name to live up to. And I did it well.

Even when the mark on my arm burned. Even when I came home in the dead of night, covered in ash and secrets. Even when I looked at Olivia and saw the way she smiled a little less, laughed a little quieter.

She was slipping away from me.

I could feel it in the way she held herself—shoulders tense, eyes always somewhere far away. She had been home schooled since summer ended, her final year of Hogwarts taken from her. No Quidditch, no parties, no late-night strolls through the castle with her friends. No freedom.

I knew what it was doing to her.

She never said it, but I saw it every time she glanced at the front gates, every time she reread old letters from Theo and Pansy, every time she watched Draco and me prepare for things she wasn't allowed to be a part of.

She was drowning in the silence.

And I didn't know how to save her from it.

One night, I came home late.

Too late.

The halls of the manor were quiet, cold. The kind of silence that swallowed you whole if you let it. I shrugged off my cloak, wincing at the dull ache in my shoulder from an earlier encounter with an Auror. I hadn't bothered cleaning myself up before coming home—I never did anymore.

I found Olivia sitting by the fireplace in our bedroom, curled up in one of my sweaters, staring at the flames like they held the answers to everything she had lost.

She didn't look up when I walked in.

I hesitated, running a hand through my hair before sitting down beside her. "You didn't have to wait up."

She hummed, but it wasn't an agreement. More like an acknowledgement that she had heard me, but didn't care.

Silence stretched between us.

I studied her profile, the fire casting shadows across her sharp cheekbones, the stubborn set of her jaw. I reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. She didn't lean into my touch the way she usually did.

My stomach twisted.

"Talk to me," I murmured.

Her throat bobbed, but she didn't turn to face me. "There's nothing to say."

"Olivia—"

"It's not like anything can change," she cut in, her voice quiet but sharp. "This is our life now. You go out on missions, I stay here and pretend this house isn't a prison."

I exhaled, my fingers curling into a fist against my knee. "It won't be like this forever."

She let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Won't it?"