Before the fire, before the screaming, before the enchanted speaker started listing names like a roll call of everyone's worst fears, Mattheo Riddle had spent months perfecting the art of pretending. Pretending he didn't notice you in the corridors. Pretending your laugh didn't still catch his attention from across the Great Hall. Pretending he wasn't still in love with his ex-girlfriend.

It was almost funny, really. The two of you had been the kind of couple people wrote songs about. You'd started dating in fifth year, after a Quidditch after-party that had gone on far too long and ended with the two of you sitting on the astronomy tower steps at three in the morning, sharing a stolen bottle of firewhisky and talking until sunrise. Mattheo had been gone for you before he even realised it. And when he finally kissed you, half-laughing, half-terrified, it had felt less like a first kiss and more like something clicking into place.

For nearly two years, you'd been inseparable. You understood him in a way most people didn't. You knew when his cocky jokes were just a shield, when he needed space, when he needed someone to sit next to him in silence. You'd fallen asleep in his dorm more times than either of you could count, wearing his hoodies, stealing his chocolate, making him laugh so hard he forgot whatever was bothering him. He'd told you things he'd never told anyone. He'd let you see him when he wasn't performing, wasn't pretending, wasn't the reckless, sarcastic version of himself he showed everyone else. He'd imagined a future with you. That was the scary part. Mattheo Riddle, who never planned anything, had actually let himself picture it.

But somewhere along the way, things had started to crack. Mattheo's fear of vulnerability, his habit of deflecting serious conversations with jokes, his tendency to pull away whenever things got too real, it all started to wear on you. And Mattheo, being Mattheo, didn't know how to fix it. So he didn't. He let the distance grow, convinced that if he just pretended hard enough, everything would go back to normal. It didn't. The break-up wasn't dramatic. There was no huge fight, no screaming match in the common room. Just a quiet conversation in an empty classroom that ended with you walking away, and Mattheo standing there in the silence, his hands still half-raised like he could somehow pull the moment back. He'd told himself he was fine. Told Theodore he was fine. Told anyone who asked that it was mutual, that it was for the best, that he didn't care. And for months, he'd done his best to believe it.

Now, seven months later, the two of you were strangers. You passed each other in the corridors without a word. Sat at opposite ends of the Slytherin table. Existed in the same spaces like you'd never meant anything to each other at all. Mattheo had convinced himself it was easier this way. Cleaner. Less painful.

He was full of shit, of course. But he'd gotten very, very good at pretending.

Then the fire started.

It began somewhere in the eastern wing, spreading fast through the ancient corridors, smoke pouring through the castle like something alive. Professors were shouting, students were running, paintings were screaming at each other to get out, get out, get out. The evacuation had been chaos. Housemates separated, panicked first-years crying, prefects trying to keep order while the flames grew closer and closer.

Now, the students and staff had gathered on the grounds, a sea of frightened faces illuminated by the orange glow of the burning castle. The professors were doing their best to keep everyone calm, to count heads, to make sure no one was left behind. And Professor McGonagall stood at the front of the crowd, wand raised to her throat, her voice magically amplified as she called out names. Names of students still unaccounted for.

Each name sent a ripple of fear through the crowd. Families huddled together. Friends gripped each other's arms. Mattheo stood with Theodore, Draco, and the others, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the burning castle. He was covered in soot, his shirt untucked, his tie completely missing. He'd been helping evacuate the younger students when the fire had spread to the west corridor, cutting off part of the castle. He hadn't seen you since the chaos began.

Mattheo didn't say anything. He just kept scanning the crowd, his eyes moving over face after face, searching. The knot in his chest was getting tighter with every name.

McGonagall's voice faltered, just slightly. Just enough to make Mattheo's blood run cold.

The world stopped.

Mattheo's entire body went rigid. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He just stood there, staring at McGonagall, certain he'd misheard. The others must have said something, Theodore must have reached for him, Draco must have spoken, but he didn't hear any of it. All he could hear was your name, echoing in his skull. You were missing. You were still inside. The castle was burning, and you were still inside.

The word came out before he could stop it, low and rough and barely audible.

And then he was running.

Theodore's shout was lost in the roar of the flames as Mattheo sprinted toward the castle gates. He could hear Draco shouting after him, could hear someone else screaming his name, but he didn't slow down. He couldn't. The smoke was already stinging his eyes, the heat pressing against his skin as he ran through the entrance hall, past the marble staircase, into the belly of the burning castle.

No answer. Just the crackling of flames, the groaning of ancient wood, the distant crash of something collapsing. The smoke was thicker here, curling through the corridors like a living thing, making it hard to see more than a few feet ahead. Mattheo pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose, his eyes burning, his lungs aching. He didn't care. He'd spent seven months pretending he didn't need you, pretending he could live without you, pretending he was fine. And now, with the castle burning down around him and your name still echoing in his head, Mattheo Riddle finally understood.

Some people were impossible to stop loving. Even when they were no longer yours.