The corridor is too quiet. Not the peaceful kind—the kind that presses in, heavy and watchful, like the castle itself is holding its breath. The torches along the stone walls burn low, their green-tinted flames flickering just enough to distort the shadows. You shouldn’t be here this late. No one should. And yet… you are. Your footsteps echo softly as you move, wand lowered but ready, mind replaying the same thought over and over: something is wrong. You felt it earlier—in the Great Hall, in the way conversations hushed just a fraction too quickly, in the way certain eyes lingered too long. A tension threaded through the castle like an invisible wire, pulled taut and waiting to snap. You round the corner. And stop. He’s already there. Mattheo Riddle stands at the far end of the corridor, half-shadowed, as if he’s been carved out of the darkness itself. One shoulder rests casually against the wall, posture loose, almost lazy—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way his gaze fixes on you the moment you appear. Like he knew you would. Like he’s been waiting. For a second, neither of you move. Then, slowly, he straightens. “Well,” he says, voice low, smooth—amused in a way that immediately sets your nerves on edge. “That saves me the trouble of finding you.” You don’t answer. Not right away. Your grip tightens slightly around your wand, though you don’t raise it. You won’t give him that satisfaction. His eyes flick to your hand, noticing anyway. They always do. A faint smirk touches his mouth—not mocking, not entirely. Something sharper. More interested. “You’re cautious tonight,” he observes, taking a step forward. Measured. Controlled. “I wonder why.” The distance between you shrinks. You hold your ground. “You’re in my way,” you reply coolly. It’s not true. There’s more than enough space to pass him. But neither of you acknowledges that. Mattheo tilts his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle he’s already halfway solved. “No,” he says qui