The Serpent & Hawke | Mattheo Riddle | Enemies to lovers

Part 55 - A little ball of light

37 Days Since Dumbledore's Death

Mattheo's POV

Sweat dripped steadily from my temples, as I practiced my combat skills on a training dummy I'd made from a fallen tree trunk.

Each spell was fuelled by a week's worth of tension and guilt.

The trunk, hovering just above the ground, swayed, spun, and jolted as I fired different spells its way.

My magic felt raw, uncontrolled - more reflection of my emotional state than actual practice.

A stress reliever more than anything, at this point.

A way to exhaust myself enough to maybe sleep without dreaming.

We'd heard on the radio a few days ago that Snape was now the headmaster of Hogwarts.

He was now in control of their education - or more accurately, their indoctrination.

The thought of him sitting in Dumbledore's chair made me sick.

I couldn't help but think about Professor McGonagall, wondering if she'd tried to fend them off, if she was even alive.

The questions haunted me at night.

I barely knew anything anymore.

The world beyond our hiding places felt increasingly distant, like a nightmare we couldn't wake from.

"Mattheo." Enzo's voice cut through my thoughts, calling from up the hill. "You're on watch duty."

I looked back but he was already gone, not waiting for my response.

His quick departure spoke volumes.

It had been over a week since the incident with Weasley.

They hadn't cast me out, but their silence was almost worse.

Each day felt like another form of punishment, well-deserved but painful nonetheless.

I don't know how many times I'd tried to apologise, but I guess they weren't ready to forgive me.

If they ever would.

They'd include me in conversations occasionally, but only when necessary - discussions about horcruxes, scheduling my turns with the locket, or like now, assigning watch duty.

Clinical.

Distant.

I didn't protest any of it.

I deserved their coldness, their distrust.

Even Astoria had migrated to sleeping in with Enzo and Pansy.

The rejection stung more than I wanted to admit.

Hours into my watch, music and laughter drifted from the tent.

Saturday night - their weekly attempt at normalcy.

Another unsuccessful week leading to alcohol and desperate distraction while the war raged on beyond our protective spells.

I walked the perimeter of our latest forest home, collecting wood for the fire.

The night was alive with sounds - soft hoots and rustling leaves within our silencing charm.

Then I heard it - stumbling and ragged breaths breaking the rhythm of the forest.

I dropped the wood, drawing my wand as I moved to investigate.

Near the tent, I found Hermione clutching her chest, one hand splayed against a tree trunk for support.

Her breathing came in sharp, painful gasps.