She was a misfit, he was a git.
Matilda Diggory enters her fifth year of school, ready to remain as under the radar as possible, only there's a catch. She's somehow managed to catch the eye of a particularly annoying redhead, who seems hell-bent on...
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Matilda didn't speak of the incident.
Not when George returned with Professor McGonagall the next day, not when Angelina asked her why she was in the Hospital Wing, not when Cedric wanted to know why she was seen being carried through the school by Fred Weasley.
Not even when Calista was called in to make sure everything was okay.
Everything would be okay so long as she forgot what happened.
But Matilda quickly realised that speaking of forgetting was far easier than actually doing so, especially when she had to see Pucey and Montague every day. Their sneers, carefully timed when no one else was looking, cut through her defences like knives. She tried to ignore them, to brush off the way their eyes glinted with malice, but her hands still trembled each time they caught her gaze.
This wasn't like Christmas break, when the memories had been distant, easier to bury. There had been no daily reminders, no one to torment her about those cold, dark days. That had been simpler to forget.
Now, it seemed the only way to erase the horror was to silence them forever, and Matilda didn't know whether to be frightened by the fierce desire she felt to see their bodies drop, like puppets with their strings cut.
Afraid or not, she silently pledged to get her revenge one day.
In the meantime, she wished there were more people in the world—Merlin help her as she admits it—like Fred and George Weasley. While they weren't overt about it, Matilda noticed how, every time they ventured down to the Dungeons, they flanked her, one on either side, like her personal guards. They never mentioned what had happened or the state they had found her in, sparing her the embarrassment of acknowledging how vulnerable she had been. For this, Matilda was profoundly grateful.
Yet, despite his silence, she could sense that Fred wanted to talk about what had happened. In fleeting moments when they were alone, she'd catch him opening his mouth as if to speak, only to see him close it a second later. She hoped his curious nature and concerned heart would grant her a reprieve, but she knew he could only hold off for so long.
With exams only a week away, Matilda buried herself beneath piles of books, using them as a distraction from what had happened—and from Fred. She felt like a robot, moving mechanically from classes to the library to her dorm, with little variation in her routine. Rarely did she venture to the Great Hall, even after Calista had cleared her, preferring the solitude of the Hospital Wing to eat her meals. It was as if her consciousness had detached from her body, floating somewhere far away, while her physical form moved on autopilot, guiding her to the library each evening for last-minute studying.
But tonight, despite her intentions, all she had managed to do was open her textbook. She stared blankly at the pages, the words swimming before her eyes, their meaning lost. Frustration welled up inside her, and she ran her hands over her face, trying in vain to feel less dead, less disconnected from the world around her. The library's quiet hum only emphasised the emptiness she felt, making it harder to push away the thoughts that had been haunting her.
