A heart beneath the mark

24. Part

Mattheo Riddle's POV

I hated the library.
Always had, always would.
It wasn't the books; I didn't give a damn about reading unless it was for assignments, and even then, only under duress. It wasn't the silence either. No, it was the people. The endless parade of swots and know-it-alls, whispering about their NEWTs and gossiping about professors, as though they had nothing better to do with their lives.

But lately, I'd found myself skulking here more often than I cared to admit. Not for the books. Not for the peace. For her.
Pathetic.
I leaned back in my chair near the far corner, one leg slung over the other, pretending to skim through a book of advanced hex theory when, in reality, my eyes weren't on the words at all. They were on Hannah Bennett, two rows over.
Of course, she wasn't alone.
She was with him.
Callum bloody Ashbridge. Seventh-year Ravenclaw, top marks in almost every subject, polished smile that probably made half the girls swoon, and—of course—good enough to play the charming knight when Hannah was at her lowest.
I watched him lean across the table, pointing something out in her textbook. His shoulder brushed hers, and she actually laughed.

Something twisted in my stomach.
I didn't like it.
I didn't like how close he sat. I didn't like how she looked at him—soft, hesitant, but still with a spark of something I'd never seen directed at me. I didn't like that he noticed when she was upset. That he bothered to ask if she was all right. That she let him.
I told myself it was because he was competition. A threat. Not to me, personally—why would I care about a girl like Hannah Bennett?—but to the order of things. To the carefully cultivated mask I wore at this school. People feared me. People kept their distance. I wanted it that way.
But Hannah hadn't.
She'd asked questions no one else dared to ask. She'd looked at me like I wasn't just a Riddle with poison running through my veins. She'd read my letter.
And then I'd ruined it.
I told myself it didn't matter. That it was better this way. That she needed to stay away from me, for her own good. That she was just another foolish girl who thought she could tame a monster.
So why couldn't I look away now?
Why did the sight of her laughing with Callum make my fists clench so hard my nails bit into my palms?

"Mattheo."
I flinched slightly at the sound of my name, dragging my gaze away from her. Draco had slid into the seat across from me, his pale brows drawn together in curiosity.
"What are you staring at?" he asked, smirking.
"Nothing," I snapped, slamming the book shut.
Draco glanced over his shoulder, following the line of my gaze. His smirk widened. "Ah. Bennett."
I gritted my teeth. "Shut it, Malfoy."
"You've been watching her for weeks," he said lazily, twirling his quill between his fingers. "And now she's cozying up with Ashbridge. Can't say I'm surprised. He's safer, isn't he? Smiles, helps with homework, doesn't bite."
"I don't bite," I muttered.
Draco's laugh was sharp. "You? You tear throats."
I glared at him, my pulse pounding. "Drop it."
He lifted his hands in mock surrender, still smirking. "Fine. But don't act like you don't care. It's written all over your face."
I shoved back from the table, the legs of the chair screeching against the stone floor. Madam Pince hissed from across the room, but I ignored her. The need to move, to get out, to breathe, was too strong.
As I stalked past Hannah and Callum's table, I didn't look at her. Not directly. But I saw enough in my peripheral vision: the way her head tilted toward him, the way his hand lingered just a fraction too close to hers.

My chest burned.
I hated it.
I hated her for making me feel anything at all.

⸻

Later that night, I found myself in the dungeons, pacing the length of the empty common room. The fire crackled low in the grate, shadows stretching across the stone walls. Everyone else was either asleep or out causing trouble.
I should've been with them. Drinking, hexing, raising hell—things I was good at. Things that reminded me who I was supposed to be.
Instead, all I could think about was her.
Her voice. Her eyes. The way she'd looked at me when she found the letter—hopeful, almost fragile. And the way I'd crushed that hope with my words, because I couldn't let her think she mattered.
You're not special, Bennett. You're just another girl who thought she could fix me.
I'd watched her face crumble when I said it. Watched the light die in her eyes.
And it gutted me.
But I couldn't take it back.
Because if I admitted even a fraction of what I felt, I'd lose everything. My control. My reputation. The walls I'd built to keep everyone out.
Feelings made you weak. My father had taught me that much. Affection was a liability. Attachment was a death sentence.
So why, when I saw Callum Ashbridge smile at her, did I want to rip him apart?

⸻

The next day was worse.
In the Great Hall, she sat with him again. Their heads bent close over a plate of toast, Cho Chang giggling beside them. Hannah looked better than she had in days—more color in her cheeks, more ease in her shoulders.
And it wasn't because of me.
I stabbed at my eggs, ignoring Draco's snide commentary, Theo's raised brows, and Lorenzo's quiet amusement.
"Maybe you should just tell her you like her," Theo suggested lazily.
My fork clattered against the plate. "Shut up."
Draco snorted. "Merlin, you're predictable."
"I don't like her," I hissed.
"Sure you don't," Lorenzo drawled. "That's why you're glaring daggers at Ashbridge like you're about to Avada him in the middle of breakfast."
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping back. Without another word, I stormed out of the hall, ignoring the stares that followed me.

⸻

I ended up in the Astronomy Tower, leaning against the cold stone balustrade, the wind biting at my skin. The castle stretched below me, vast and ancient, indifferent to the mess inside my head.
I lit a cigarette with a flick of my wand, the smoke curling into the night sky.
She deserved better.
That's what I told myself, over and over.
She deserved someone who could smile at her without malice. Someone who wouldn't break her the way I inevitably would. Someone like Callum Ashbridge.
So why did the thought of them together make me want to put my fist through a wall?

⸻

I don't know how long I stayed there, smoking and stewing in my own poison. Long enough for the stars to shift overhead. Long enough for the wind to cut through my coat.
When I finally left, heading back through the deserted corridors, I caught a glimpse of her again. Hannah.
She was walking with Callum, their laughter echoing softly against the stone walls. He carried her books for her. She looked at him like he was sunlight.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt something I couldn't name. Something raw. Something dangerous.
Not hatred. Not anger. Not even jealousy, though that was part of it.
It was loss.
The sickening realization that maybe—just maybe—I'd already lost her.

⸻

I clenched my fists until my nails dug bloody crescents into my palms.

Good.
Better this way.
Better she hate me.
Better she look at him the way she'd once looked at me.
Because if she kept looking at me like she did... I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold my walls.
And I couldn't afford to let them fall.
Not for her.
Not for anyone.