A heart beneath the mark

20. Part

Hannah Bennett's POV

It started with Professor McGonagall's voice, sharp as a wand crack, slicing through the air of our Friday afternoon Transfiguration class.

"Miss Bennett, if you'd prefer to explain the fundamental mechanics of object-to-creature inversion with your own sources rather than the assigned reading, by all means—enlighten us."

Heat crept up my neck as the room fell quiet. I looked up from my blank parchment and muttered, "Sorry, Professor. I'll review it tonight."
She gave me a tight nod. "I suggest you consult Davenport's Defensive Transfigurations, fourth edition. It contains the diagrams your classmates found so enlightening."
I nodded again, trying not to shrink beneath the weight of thirty eyes.

McGonagall's correction wasn't unkind—but it stung. Not because she embarrassed me, but because she was right. I'd been unfocused for days, distracted by a certain Slytherin boy whose gaze seemed to burn into me even when my back was turned.
Mattheo Riddle had taken root in my thoughts like a weed I couldn't pull.
And now, because of that same distraction, I needed to spend my Friday evening in the library, chasing diagrams and definitions instead of relaxing like a normal student.

⸻

The library was nearly empty by the time I arrived. Just a few scattered seventh-years hunched over their NEWT prep and Madam Pince muttering about loose parchment.
I made a beeline for the Transfiguration section, scanning the shelves until I spotted it:
Davenport's Defensive Transfigurations.
Fourth edition. Thick and heavy, with a faded emerald-green spine.
I pulled it out.
And something dropped to the floor.
A single folded parchment, creased at the corners, fluttered down silently between my shoes.
Frowning, I bent down and picked it up, intending to shove it carelessly back between the pages—but then I saw the writing.

My name.
Hannah.

Just that. Nothing else. Written at the top in dark, jagged ink that felt both aggressive and... hesitant.
I blinked.
No. That handwriting—I'd recognize it anywhere. I'd seen it on the edges of shared Potions notes and carved into the margins of detention essays.
Mattheo Riddle.
My stomach flipped. I looked around, half-expecting him to step out from behind a bookshelf and snatch it from my hands.
But I was alone.
A wave of unease swept over me. Why would he write me a letter—and hide it inside a Transfiguration book?
I held it delicately now, like it might explode.
I didn't open it. I didn't read it.
But I could feel the weight of it, like the words inside were pulsing against the page.

⸻

Mattheo Riddle's POV

Two hours later.

The sky was dull grey when I stalked into the library, fists in my pockets and tension coiled tight in my spine.
I wasn't here to read.
I was here to undo a mistake.
The letter. That letter. The one I never should've written.
I'd come straight after dinner, pretending I needed a book for Arithmancy, even though I hadn't touched my assignments in days. It was a lie I told myself more than anyone else. I didn't care about Arithmancy.
I cared about that goddamn letter sitting in the middle of Davenport's Defensive Transfigurations, fourth edition—buried in a moment of weakness I hated myself for.
I reached the shelf.
Stopped cold.
The book was gone.

"What the hell..." I murmured, scanning the titles, the rows above and below.
Gone. The exact copy I'd tucked it into. Vanished.
No one else would've grabbed it. It was obscure—McGonagall had recommended it once to the whole class. The only person who might've followed that advice was...
My pulse jumped.
No. No, fuck, no. She couldn't have—
I turned sharply, nearly knocking over a first-year, and stalked out of the aisle.
If she found it...
If she read it—
I didn't know what I'd written, not exactly. Just pieces. Fragments of thought I never meant to speak aloud. Questions I hated myself for thinking. A version of me I didn't recognize.
A version of me that gave a damn.

⸻

Hannah Bennett's POV

I stared at the letter for another full minute before sliding it carefully back into the book. I couldn't bring myself to read it. Not yet.
It didn't feel like I had permission.
And strangely, I didn't want to break whatever fragile thing this was. If Mattheo had hidden it, that meant he didn't want me to find it—or at least, not until he was ready.
And he wasn't ready.
I clutched the book to my chest and left the library with quick steps, my thoughts spinning, questions multiplying with every breath.

⸻

The Next Day

It was raining.
The corridors were slick with damp footprints and the smell of wet cloaks, but none of that mattered. I was moving on autopilot, barely hearing the people around me.
I still hadn't read the letter.
It sat in the bottom of my bag now, pressed between my notes and a chocolate frog card Luna had given me.
I didn't know why I hadn't read it. Maybe part of me was scared of what it would say.
Maybe part of me was scared of what it wouldn't.
And then—I saw him.

Mattheo.

Standing alone in the main hallway, leaning against the wall near the Charms corridor. His arms were crossed, and his eyes were fixed on the floor like he was willing it to disappear.
I stopped.
Our eyes met.
And something passed between us.
His gaze flicked to the strap of my bag. Briefly. Then back to my face.
And I saw it—the realization.
He knew. He knew I had it. He didn't move. Didn't speak. But his jaw clenched, and his fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for something but couldn't.
I didn't say anything either.
But my heart thundered, and for one, unguarded moment, I wanted to ask him what he meant. What he felt. Why he wrote it.
Instead, I walked past him. Slowly. Not ignoring him. Just... waiting.
Waiting for him to decide if he wanted me to read it. Or if he'd come for it himself.
Because something told me the next words we exchanged—
Would change everything.