A heart beneath the mark

16. Part

It had been nearly three weeks since I woke up in the Hospital Wing, and Mattheo Riddle hadn't said a single word to me. Which was fine. Expected, even. The world had righted itself again—he'd gone back to pretending I didn't exist, and I'd gone back to pretending it didn't bother me.
Except it did.
Not that I'd ever admit it.
I wasn't sure what I had expected after waking up to Madame Pomfrey's gentle voice, telling me I'd collapsed in the library and Mattheo Riddle had carried me here. Or that he'd visited once or twice, stood awkwardly near the foot of my bed, silent and cold, then left before I ever opened my eyes. Apparently, he had finished our project alone. Presented it in front of the class by himself. Everyone said it had been brilliant. He'd even left my name on the parchment, perfectly inked beneath his.
And then he vanished.
Not literally, obviously. He was still at Hogwarts—still surrounded by the same circle of dark robes and whispered rumors. I saw him. Constantly.
In the corridors. In Potions. In the Great Hall, his expression unreadable as he pushed his food around his plate with elegant disinterest. But never at me. Never to me.
He didn't insult me anymore. That was new.
He didn't sneer when I passed, didn't lean close to make some offhand jab under his breath. It was like I'd ceased to exist entirely—and somehow, that felt worse than all the teasing, the insults, the narrowed glares we used to throw at each other like daggers across the library.
Now, there was nothing.
And the nothingness had weight.
I caught myself watching him when I shouldn't. Wondering why he hadn't said a word. Telling myself I didn't care. Over and over. If I repeated it enough, maybe it would be true.

"You know you've been staring at your toast for the past ten minutes, right?"
I blinked. Cho was looking at me across the Ravenclaw table, her eyes sharp with amusement. She was halfway through her second pumpkin pasty.
"You always say that," I muttered, reaching for my goblet. "Maybe I just enjoy the aesthetic of slightly burnt bread."
"Or maybe you're watching the Slytherin table again."
I almost choked on my pumpkin juice. "I am not watching—"
"Hannah." Cho leaned in, voice low. "Just admit it. He hasn't looked at you once in three weeks, and it's driving you insane."
"It's not," I lied.
She smiled knowingly. "He used to insult you constantly. Now he doesn't even glance at you. That's... weird. Even for Mattheo Riddle."
I poked my eggs with my fork, a bit too forcefully. "Maybe he got bored."
"Or maybe he doesn't know what to do with you anymore."
I frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Cho shrugged. "You scared him, I think. Collapsing like that. And maybe—just maybe—he cared for a second and hated that he did."
I laughed. Too loud. "Mattheo Riddle doesn't care. About anyone."
"Doesn't he?" she said quietly.
_______________________________________________________________________________________
It was late when we left the Three Broomsticks. The windows glowed warmly behind us, flickering orange against the gathering dark. Cho stayed behind—some sixth-year from Gryffindor had offered her a refill, and she waved me off with a grin.
So I left alone, tugging my cloak tighter as I stepped into the night.
The snow had begun to fall again, soft and quiet. The path back to Hogwarts was mostly deserted. I passed a group of Hufflepuff girls heading back together, laughter trailing behind them in little puffs of white breath. After that, there was only the sound of my boots crunching over the snow-covered path.
I didn't mind the silence. Not usually.
But something about tonight made the quiet feel... too quiet.
Like the shadows were listening.
I wrapped my cloak tighter around myself and rounded the corner—only to nearly crash into someone.
"Oh—bloody hell," I muttered, stumbling back a step.
"Watch it, Bennett," came a voice I hadn't heard up close in weeks. Dry, calm, vaguely amused.
My heart stuttered.
"Mattheo?" I said before I could help it.
He was standing casually against the wall, arms crossed, looking like he had been there a while. Or like he always existed in shadow.
"In the flesh," he said with a half-smirk. "What, forget what I look like already?"
I swallowed hard. "I thought you were... avoiding me."
He shrugged. "Not avoiding. Just choosing not to engage."
"Right," I muttered. "Totally different thing."
He stepped forward a bit, the light catching the sharp line of his jaw. His expression was unreadable.
There was a beat of silence, then—
"You look better," he said, and it took me a second to register that it wasn't an insult.
"Thanks," I said carefully, eyeing him. "Surprised you noticed."
Another shrug. "Hard not to when you passed out on me like some damsel in distress."
I narrowed my eyes, but there wasn't real heat behind it. "Glad I could add to your dramatics."
His gaze flicked across my face. "Why didn't you eat that day?"
The question cut straight through me. My chest tightened.
I looked away. "It doesn't matter."
"It clearly does."
"I said it doesn't," I repeated, sharper this time.
He tilted his head, and his next words came out too lightly—meant to be offhand, maybe even teasing, but they hit wrong.
"What, skipping meals for attention now?"
It was like being slapped.
I stiffened immediately, heat rising to my face—not the good kind. The sick kind. My hands curled into fists at my sides, and for a moment, I couldn't speak.
Mattheo noticed. His smirk started to fade. "Bennett, I didn't mean—"
"You didn't mean to be an arse? Could've fooled me," I snapped, voice trembling.
His brow furrowed.
"You want to know why I didn't eat?" I said, too loudly. "Fine. I'm being bullied. Relentlessly. They hide my books, whisper behind my back, laugh when I walk into class. They hexed my robes last week so they reeked of garbage all day."
He blinked. Said nothing.
"I don't eat because I hate myself more every time I look in the mirror. Because every meal feels like a punishment I'm not sure I deserve."
I didn't care anymore that my voice cracked. Or that a tear slipped down my cheek. I didn't care that I was breaking right in front of him.
Mattheo opened his mouth, then closed it. His hands were still in his pockets, but his posture had changed—straighter, tense, like he'd been punched in the stomach.
"I didn't know," he said quietly.
"Yeah. No one does. No one wants to. They just want to make jokes."
He stepped closer, just a little, like he wasn't sure if he should. "I wasn't trying to hurt you."
"Well," I said, voice flat, "you did."
I turned without waiting for his response, heart pounding as I walked away, each step echoing louder than the last.
"Bennett," I heard behind me. Just once. Softly.
But I didn't stop.