A heart beneath the mark

13. Part

trigger warning: eating disorder

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The next morning, I woke up with every inch of my body still hurting. The bright morning sun shone gently through my window, directly into my face. All I wanted to do on this lovely Saturday was stay in bed or spend the day reading by the Black Lake. I grumbled a little, unable to move, until my eyes fell on my alarm clock.

8:45 a.m.

"Shit," I muttered, the events of the previous night rushing back to me like an unwelcome guest. I had a project with Mattheo Riddle in Potions, due on Monday—exactly two days away—and we hadn't done anything yet.

I shot out of bed, ignoring the protests of my aching muscles. Rushing into the bathroom, I splashed cold water onto my face, hoping to jolt myself awake.

As droplets trickled down my cheeks, I glanced up at the mirror in front of me. My reflection didn't offer much reassurance. My hair was a wild, tangled mess; a fresh crop of pimples adorned my face, and my body—well, let's just say I wasn't feeling particularly confident.

My mind wandered to memories I tried to bury. Those first few years at Hogwarts had been a nightmare. The snide comments, the stifled laughter behind my back, and the way they'd pick apart every inch of my appearance... It had nearly broken me.

I remembered crying myself to sleep night after night, longing to leave the school altogether. But then, Professor McGonagall had stepped in. She had found me in tears after one particularly cruel encounter and had asked me to tell her everything. Through sobs, I had poured my heart out to her. She had listened, hugged me, and promised things would change. The open bullying had stopped after that, but the whispers, the stares—they never truly went away.

With a heavy sigh, I dried my face, threw on a pair of comfortable sweatpants, and an oversized sweater that swallowed my frame. Pulling a comb through my hair, I set out for the library.

The halls of Hogwarts were unusually quiet, save for the occasional rustle of a passing ghost or the faint hum of portraits conversing amongst themselves. It was autumn, the season of parties and gatherings before the academic workload became unbearable. I couldn't help but wonder why Mattheo Riddle had wanted to meet so early. Surely, he was one of those students who partied well into the night.

By the time I arrived at the library, I spotted him almost immediately. He was lounging in one of the chairs near the back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his black hair tousled in a way that made it impossible to tell whether he had styled it deliberately or rolled out of bed like that. His dark green tie was askew, and the faintest hint of a smirk played on his lips as he looked up and saw me.

"Bennett," he drawled, leaning back further in his chair. "You look... well-rested. Must've been some party you attended last night."

I ignored him, refusing to rise to the bait.

He tilted his head, his smirk deepening. "Though I must say, that sweater really does wonders for hiding..." His gaze flicked downward. "...all the extra weight you're carrying around."

My chest tightened, and my hands clenched into fists at my sides. The words cut deeper than I wanted them to, and for a moment, I considered leaving right then and there.

But I couldn't. This project was important.

Taking a deep breath, I walked past him without a word and sat down, pulling out parchment and my notes.

The project was no simple one. We were tasked with researching and preparing the Draught of Invisibility—a potion so complex that even small mistakes could render it useless or, worse, dangerous. It required meticulous planning, rare ingredients, and perfect brewing conditions. The potion was a challenge even for seasoned potion-makers, and the thought of working on it with Mattheo was already exhausting.

We worked in silence for a while, though he occasionally threw in snide remarks about my handwriting or my over-detailed notes. By the time noon rolled around, he stretched lazily and stood.

"Come on, Bennett," he said, heading toward the library doors. "Time to eat. Let's go."

I shook my head, focusing on the ingredients list I was compiling. "You go ahead, Riddle. I'll stay here."

He paused, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "Suit yourself," he said with a shrug, before disappearing.

The truth was, his earlier comments had stolen my appetite. Instead of eating, I buried myself in our work, determined to make as much progress as possible before he returned. The list of ingredients was long and included items like powdered moonstone, crushed velvet beans, and essence of shadowthorn—a plant that could only be harvested under a new moon.

When Mattheo returned an hour later, his sleeves rolled up and a careless expression on his face, I was still at the table, scribbling away.

"Still here, huh?" he said, dropping into the chair beside me. "You're more dedicated than I thought, Bennett. Maybe there's hope for you yet."

I ignored him, though the slight pang in my stomach was hard to disregard.

We worked until the evening, gradually piecing together a brewing plan and dividing the workload. By the time we decided to call it a day, my head was pounding, and my limbs felt like lead.

As I stood, a wave of dizziness washed over me. The edges of my vision blurred, and I barely registered Mattheo saying something—his voice distant and muffled.

"Bennett? Hey, Bennett!"

His voice grew sharper, tinged with concern. "Have you even eaten today?"

I tried to respond, but the words wouldn't come. My knees buckled, and the last thing I saw before the world went dark was the faint look of alarm on Mattheo's face.