Faer • Mattheo Riddle

12.0

Two weeks had passed since that night, and in the strangest of ways, things between Mattheo and me had started to shift.

Slowly, but noticeably, he was warming up. His biting comments had softened, though they hadn't completely vanished.

I, in turn, had been letting my guard down recently, with anyone around me, allowing them to see more of me than I usually let anyone see.

My relationship with Draco carried on as if nothing had ever happened between Mattheo and me, the two of us silently agreeing it was best not to rehash it.

It was easier that way, pretending it was a fleeting mistake, something forgotten in the haze of frustration and anger. But sometimes, when our eyes met, I could see the memory of it flicker in his gaze, mirrored in mine.

For the most part, life had become almost too calm-warm, even.

Everyone seemed to be doing well recently.

Our task was moving forward steadily, and aside from the terrifying moments spent in Voldemort's presence during the meetings, things were falling into place.

The vanishing cabinet had proven to be a critical piece of the plan, and soon, we'd be ready.

Except every good story must come to an end.

It was 3 a.m., the corridors of the boys dorms eerily silent, except for the frantic sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

My hands were trembling violently, coated in the sticky warmth of blood, and my clothes clung to my skin, soaked in red.

My mind was racing, spiraling, caught in a whirlpool of panic and dread. The metallic scent clung to me, suffocating me with every breath.

I stood outside the door, my knuckles hovering over the wood as I struggled to knock.

I couldn't think straight, couldn't process anything other than the horror of what I'd done. Finally, I forced myself to lift my hand and tap lightly. My fingers shook so much it was barely more than a scratch.

The door opened, and there stood Mattheo, shirtless and sleepy, his brow furrowing the second his eyes landed on me.

"Faer?" His voice was laced with confusion, but when his gaze dropped to my blood-covered hands and clothes, the confusion quickly morphed into something darker.

"What the fuck-"

I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. My throat was tight, and all I could do was stand there, trembling, covered in another person's blood.

"Faer," he repeated, this time more sharply. His eyes searched mine, demanding an answer.

"What the hell happened?"

"I..." My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper. My chest tightened, and I felt like I was going to collapse.

I could feel the blood drying on my hands, on my neck, on my shirt-tainting me, marking me with the memory of what I'd done.