Emerson Wilmore was an exemplary Ravenclaw student, known for her unwavering dedication to academics and an unyielding moral compass. However, things took a twisted and deviated turn in her life after her boyfriend, Cedric Diggory, was murdered by L...
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The castle corridors were still cloaked in morning hush on Thursday as Emerson and Mattheo walked side by side toward the dungeons. A faint chill lingered in the air, curling at their scarves, their footsteps echoing quietly against the stone floor. Most students were just beginning to emerge from breakfast, but Emerson and Mattheo decided to finish early. It was something that was becoming more frequent lately, with unspoken moments carved out just for them before the day swallowed them whole.
Mattheo ran a hand through his dark curls, still slightly damp from a rushed shower after his morning workout. His green and silver tie hung slightly looser than it should've. Emerson noticed, but said nothing. She noticed a lot about him these days: how he smelled like pine and smoke when it was early, and how his voice was hoarser in the morning. She also still looked forward to these shared walks, no matter how short.
He looked tired. The kind of tired that sat behind his eyes but didn't slow his steps.
"I feel like I haven't breathed since Monday," She muttered, breaking the silence.
Mattheo smirked without turning his head. "You're dramatic for a Ravenclaw. I thought you thrive off study."
"We've had three essays, three tests, and you've had Quidditch every evening."
"Still breathing," He replied dryly.
She cast him a sideways glance. "Are you? Because the circles under your eyes are saying otherwise."
Mattheo gave a short, tired laugh. "Thanks, Emie. Really needed that today."
Emerson glanced sideways at him. He knew she was joking, but she was worried about him. "You're going to run yourself into the ground if you keep this up."
He smirked faintly, not looking at her. "Says the girl who's been finishing essays at one in the morning for three nights in a row."
"That's different," She replied, adjusting the strap of her satchel. "My hobbies don't involve getting hit by a Bludger at seventy miles an hour."
"No, just self-inflicted sleep deprivation," He reminded her. "Either way, I still care about it."
She rolled her eyes, but her lips tugged upward.
They rounded the corner toward the dungeons. The air grew colder. The scent of damp stone and potion fumes clung to the corridor like a second skin.
There was a beat of silence before she spoke again, quieter this time. "We still haven't started."
Mattheo slowed a little. "Started what?"
"You know what."
He did. He didn't answer immediately, only exhaled through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. I know."
