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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Mattheo eventually opened his eyes to an empty bed and sunlight he had no right to feel so pleased about.
For several seconds, he remained exactly where Emerson left him, his arm stretched across the pillow she was using and his face turned towards the faint impression her head left behind. The curtains around his bed were still half-drawn, keeping most of the weak winter light from reaching him, but enough filtered through to cast thin silver lines across the sheets.
His room was quiet. Theo and Enzo apparently still hadn't returned, which was either deeply concerning or, considering who they left with, probably exactly what they intended.
Mattheo closed his eyes again.
Emerson's scent still clung to his pillow. Vanilla and peonies, faintly. It was a scent that was clean and warm that he never managed to name because, as far as he was concerned, it simply smelled like her.
His mouth curved before he could stop it.
He actually slept, although not perfectly. The nightmare towards morning had still found him eventually, clawing its way through whatever remained of the Dreamless Sleep Potion until he woke with his heart trying to break through his ribs and Emerson's hands already on him.
His body was still exhausted. One decent night could not repair several weeks of surviving on fragments of sleep, and there was a heaviness behind his eyes that reminded him of that fact every time he blinked. His limbs felt languid rather than ruined, however, and the difference was extraordinary.
Most importantly, his mind was quiet from the phantom screams and images of Emerson beneath a Death Eater's mask. All he could think about was the memory of her wearing his hoodie and standing beside his bed with her hair mussed from sleep while informing him, with absolute seriousness, that turning up to breakfast dressed entirely as a Slytherin would be the worst possible idea.
Everything about the morning felt effortless, which was becoming frighteningly common whenever Emerson was involved.
The world had not actually changed. Voldemort was still alive. The Carrows were still running Hogwarts like a private torture chamber. Mattheo still had a Dark Mark beneath his sleeve and enough secrets to have him murdered several different ways if the wrong person discovered half of them.
Yet Emerson loved him which seemed, somehow, to make the rest temporarily irrelevant.
Mattheo gave himself another minute before finally forcing his body upright. The room shifted only slightly when his feet touched the floor, which was already an improvement from the previous night, and Mattheo sat there for a moment with his elbows resting on his knees while he scrubbed both hands over his face.
His hair fell forward immediately, dark curls disordered from sleep and Emerson's fingers.
