A heart beneath the mark

21. Part

The letter was burning a hole in my bag.

I hadn't even read it, not properly. Just my name—Hannah, written in Mattheo Riddle's handwriting, sharp and slanted, like every letter had been scratched out with a dagger instead of ink. And still, I hadn't let myself open it. Not on the walk back from the library. Not in my dorm room. Not even when I lay in bed, staring at the canopy with the same sentence running laps in my head: He wrote me a letter.

It didn't make sense.

Mattheo Riddle didn't write letters. He hexed people in corridors and sneered at prefects and stalked around the castle like he was too bored for anyone's existence. He didn't feel things. He didn't talk about things. And yet... there it was. A letter. With my name.

It took me a full day to open it.

When I finally did, I was curled in the far corner of the Astronomy Tower, the letter pressed between my fingers like it might disintegrate if I blinked the wrong way. The ink had bled slightly at the edges, like he'd pressed the quill too hard in places. I unfolded it slowly.

And read.

⸻

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?

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—

—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.

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.

⸻
The words blurred a little at the end. I wasn't crying—not exactly—but something thick and unnameable had settled in my throat, a mixture of confusion and something that felt dangerously close to hope.
It wasn't just a note. It was a confession. A fracture in the armor.
And for some idiotic reason, I wanted to talk to him about it.
I wasn't sure what I was expecting when I found him outside the Potions classroom the next day. He stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed, shirt rumpled, like he was trying too hard not to look bored. His eyes flicked to mine the second I approached.
He saw it immediately. The folded paper in my hand.
His entire body tensed. "You read it," he said flatly.
I swallowed. "Yes."

A pause.

Then he pushed off the wall, took a step closer, and sneered. "Good for you."
I blinked. "Mattheo—"
"No," he snapped, voice sharp enough to cut stone. "Don't. Don't say my name like that. Like we're—what? Friends? Something more?" His mouth twisted. "God, you really don't know me, do you?"
"I'm trying to," I said quietly. "That's the point."
He laughed—a cruel, cold sound. "That was a mistake, then. You should've thrown the letter in the fire."
"Why did you write it if you didn't want me to read it?"
"I didn't want you to read it, Bennett. I was... fuck, I don't know. I had a moment of weakness. That's all it was."
I tightened my grip on the letter. "You meant it."
"No, I didn't." His eyes were hard now, empty. "You're not special. Don't flatter yourself. You were just... convenient."
I flinched. The words stung more than I wanted to admit.
"I thought maybe—" I began, but he cut me off again.
"You thought wrong. Merlin, you're so naïve. You think because I wrote some pathetic little note, it means I'm suddenly going to be the guy who holds your hand in the courtyard and asks about your day?"
"That's not what I—"
He stepped closer, voice low and cruel. "You want me to change? You want a fucking project, Bennett? Go fix someone else. I'm not your broken boy to rescue."
I stared at him. "You're scared," I whispered.
His jaw clenched. "Get out of my face."
"Mattheo—"
"I said go!"
The hallway rang with his shout. A few students turned to look. I felt my face burn.
I backed away slowly. "You didn't have to mean any of it. But you wrote it. And that says more than your insults ever will."
He didn't answer.

Didn't move.

I walked away.

And this time... he didn't follow.

⸻
Later
I stared at the letter on my bed, unfolded now, the parchment worn at the corners from being reread too many times in a single day.
I didn't understand what had happened. How someone could be so vulnerable in ink, and so vicious in person. Like the moment he saw himself reflected in my eyes, he hated it. Hated me for seeing.
Cho sat across from me, legs curled under her, watching me carefully.
"You going to tell me what happened or do I have to hex it out of you?"
I let out a breath and finally looked up. "He wrote me a letter."
"Mattheo?"
I nodded.
"Holy shit."

"It wasn't... it wasn't nothing. He talked about everything. About how he sees me. How he watches me when I don't notice. That he doesn't understand why he cares."
Cho blinked. "That's... intense."
I laughed bitterly. "Yeah. And then when I tried to talk to him about it, he told me I wasn't special. That I was convenient. Called the letter pathetic."
Cho frowned. "He's pushing you away."
"I know," I whispered. "But it still hurt."
"You care about him?"
I hesitated.
Then nodded. "I think I do. And I don't know why."
Cho reached across the bed and squeezed my hand. "Then we'll figure it out. Together. But Hannah... don't let him destroy you in the process."
I pressed my lips together, eyes burning. "I already feel like I'm disappearing."
"Then let's bring you back."