y/n’s walking home from hogsmeade after a night out with the girls. on her way back, she notices someone following her. without thinking, the first person she texts is her enemy — mattheo riddle. and he is not happy.
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@velmorathe three broomsticks was properly buzzing that night. packed to the rafters with hogwarts students taking advantage of the last hogsmeade weekend before exams. warm firelight, the smell of butterbeer and firewhisky. someone had clearly convinced rosemerta to let the jukebox stay on, because some shite pop song was playing from the corner.
pansy was mid-story, gesturing wildly with her glass while daphne nodded along with the patient expression of someone who'd heard this exact story four times already.
Pansy Parkinson
—and then he actually had the audacity to say he'd "forgotten" my birthday. forgotten! like i'm some casual acquaintance he ran into at fortescue's.
Astoria Greengrass
giggling pans, you sent him a reminder three days before.
Pansy Parkinson
waving a dismissive hand details. the point is, he's dead to me. absolutely dead. six feet under. gone.
Daphne Greengrass
taking a slow sip of her drink, unimpressed so you're saying we should mark him down as "unavailable" in the group chat document.
Pansy Parkinson
points at her exactly. you get it.
the others burst into laughter. it was warm, comfortable, familiar. the kind of evening that made you forget you had classes in the morning and essays that were absolutely not going to write themselves.
Astoria Greengrass
turning to you, a knowing smile on her face one more round? come on. we haven't even gotten to the good gossip yet. blaise sent mattheo that photo from last weekend and apparently—
Pansy Parkinson
jumping in oh, the one of him asleep on the couches in the common room with theo's hand half over his face? iconic. i have it saved. i'm saving it for blackmail.
astoria and daphne laughed. pansy looked far too proud of herself. the jukebox switched tracks, and somewhere by the window, a group of ravenclaws were arguing loudly over something that sounded suspiciously like divination homework.
but you were tired. the kind of bone-deep tired that came from a week of no sleep, too much homework, and the particular flavour of exhaustion that only slytherin common room drama could bring. your phone said 11:42 pm. the walk back to the castle would take about twenty minutes at this hour, but you'd done it a hundred times before.
this time was no different. probably.
Pansy Parkinson
raising an eyebrow don't you dare. i can see you thinking about leaving. that's the face you make when you're about to abandon us.
Daphne Greengrass
dryly the same face you make when you see a thestrus in the forbidden forest.
Astoria Greengrass
gently are you sure you don't want to stay? we could grab some firewhisky to take back—
Pansy Parkinson
grinning or we could grab some firewhisky and have a proper night. i'm thinking we raid the slytherin common room, steal theo's record player, and have an actual party.
beat or, you know, we could just go back and pass out. that also sounds excellent. i'm not picky.
their laughter followed you as you slid out of the booth, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. you gave them a little wave, ignoring their protests, and stepped out into the cold night air.
hogsmeade at night was a different place entirely. the streetlamps cast pools of amber light onto the cobblestones, and the shops sat silent and dark behind their windows. most of the students had already headed back to the castle. a few stragglers lingered outside the hogshead, their voices echoing off the brick walls.
the walk back to hogwarts was a straight shot down the main road, then through the gates, then across the grounds. familiar. easy. nothing to think about.
except for the footsteps.
they started maybe two minutes after you left the three broomsticks. not loud, exactly. just... there. consistent. matching your pace. when you sped up slightly, they sped up too. when you slowed down, they slowed.
you told yourself it was nothing. that you were being paranoid. that it was probably just another student heading back the same way. logical. reasonable.
except you'd noticed him earlier. the guy with the dark hair and the too-long stare, sitting alone near the window in the three broomsticks. he'd been looking at you all night. you'd tried to ignore it, had convinced yourself you were imagining it.
now he was behind you. and every time you glanced back, he was still there.
there was no one else on the road. no groups of students, no late-night stragglers. just you, him, and the sound of your own pulse starting to pick up.
you turned down a side street, a shortcut that would take you past the post office and loop you back toward the castle gates. his footsteps followed.
a left. a right. down past the shrieking shack's gate, the one everyone avoided after dark.
so did he.
your hands were shaking by the time you pulled your phone out. your thumb hovered over your contacts. you scrolled through the familiar names—blaise, theo, enzo, harry, hermione—but your fingers stopped on a name you never called. a name you'd rather choke than ask for help from.
mattheo riddle.
you looked at his contact photo—some blurry, half-candid shot that pansy had taken at a party, mattheo mid-laugh with a drink in his hand—and the thought of texting him felt absurd. the two of you never talked unless it was to argue. you'd spent the better part of the year trading insults and dodging each other's presence.
but another glance over your shoulder showed the silhouette of him. still there. still mirroring your movements. now closer.
the phone buzzed in your hand as you started typing.