A heart beneath the mark

19. Part

Mattheo Riddle's POV

I hate people.

Not in that edgy, misunderstood, "nobody gets me" kind of way. I genuinely find most people intolerable. They're loud, fake, predictable. Their faces blur together in the corridors, their laughter grates in my ears, and their pathetic need for attention makes me want to hex them into silence. They talk too much and think too little. They crave approval, affection, love—and they throw those words around like sweets on the Hogwarts Express.

I've spent years building my armor out of silence, cruelty, and distance. It works. People fear me. They leave me alone. That's how I like it.

At least, that's how I thought I liked it.

Until Hannah Bennett started messing everything up.

It wasn't anything dramatic. No lightning bolt. No sudden, poetic awakening. Just...a shift. Subtle. Like the turning of a page. One moment I was glaring at her across the Potions classroom, wondering how someone so small could carry herself like she had fire in her veins—and the next, I was staring too long, asking her questions I had no right to ask.

And now I'm here. Alone in the library. Staring down at a blank sheet of parchment like it holds the answer to everything I don't understand.

Why her? Why now? What the fuck is wrong with me?

I drag my fingers through my hair and sigh. It's late. Everyone else is in bed, and I should be too. But something's clawing at my chest, and I can't breathe properly until I get it out.

So I grab my quill. Dip it in ink. And begin.

⸻

Hannah,

I don't know why I'm writing this. It's not like I'm going to give it to you. Don't get your hopes up.
You don't know me. Not really. You've seen the version I let people see—the one who snaps and sneers and acts like he couldn't care less whether the castle burned to the ground. You've seen me at my worst, and I didn't try to stop you. Maybe I even wanted you to see me like that.
Because if you hated me, it would be easier.
But you didn't. You looked at me like you were trying to understand something I didn't even understand myself. And that's what scares me. You make me feel like I'm being seen, properly seen, and it makes me want to run and stay all at once.
I don't do feelings. I don't do "talking about things." I don't open up. I destroy. That's what I'm good at.
So why do I keep finding myself wondering if you've eaten today?
Why the hell do I care if you think I'm heartless?

⸻

I stop writing, glaring down at the ink bleeding across the parchment. What am I doing?
I don't write letters. I don't confess things. I don't let people into the mess that is my mind.
And yet, the words pour out like venom.

⸻

Sometimes, I watch you when you're not looking. Not in a creepy way—don't flatter yourself. I just... notice things. Like how your fingers tap against your sleeve when you're nervous. Or how your smile falters when you think no one's paying attention. You try so hard to act like you're fine, like nothing gets to you. But I've seen it. The cracks. The way your eyes go distant when you think too long.

I don't know what happened to you, and it's none of my business. But it makes me want to—

(What? Protect you? Fix it? What am I, a fucking Gryffindor?)

—It makes me want to stop being the reason your eyes darken. And I hate that. Because I never wanted to be anything to anyone.

⸻

I clench my jaw, trying to slow my thoughts. They're spiraling again, tugging me into places I don't go. I've always known how to control myself. But lately, when it comes to her...
It's like she walks into the room and suddenly everything's louder. Sharper. Real.
And what's worse—I've caught myself wanting to talk to her. Ask her things. Not out of boredom or strategy—just curiosity. Genuine fucking interest.
Like the other day, when she mentioned she liked thunderstorms. I could've let it go. But no, I had to ask why. I had to hear her say, "Because the noise drowns out my thoughts."
It stuck with me.
She stuck with me.
And I don't know what to do with that.

⸻

You're not like the others, Bennett. And I don't mean that in a cheesy, I've-got-a-crush way. You're infuriating. You ask too many questions. You challenge everything I say. You don't let me get away with the usual shit. And that's what makes you dangerous.
Because when I'm around you, I start to forget who I'm supposed to be.
And I don't know if I want to be that person anymore.

⸻

A loud noise echoes down the corridor—footsteps, maybe. My body tenses on instinct. I shove the letter into the nearest book without thinking, slamming it shut and standing, pulse pounding.
Who the hell is down here this late?
I slip the book back into the shelf. Row F, section 12—"Advanced Defensive Transfigurations." No one ever checks this aisle. It'll be safe here.
The steps grow louder. Closer. My hand twitches toward my wand, out of habit, not fear.
But it's just Madam Pince, muttering to herself about "reckless students." She doesn't see me as I step into the shadows.
By the time she disappears again, the letter is gone from my thoughts. I don't go back for it.
Let it rot between those pages. Let the words fade with the ink.
She'll never read it.
And that's for the best.
Because whatever this is—whatever's growing inside my chest like an uninvited flame—it doesn't change who I am.

I'm Mattheo Riddle.

And I don't fall for girls. Especially not Hannah Bennett.