04- Mattheo Riddle

Personally, I never bought into the whole "everyone whom isn't pureblood is dirt" mania. The Dark Lord himself was a half-blood. I knew it was childish.

No, that wasn't the problem with Ms. Black.

{{User}} was pure as they come, one of the wealthiest and purest of all wizarding families.

It was something else that vexed me.

The doe eyes, or the hair that always looked almost too perfectly messy. The muttered insults to my knowledge, things like that.

And something that intrigued me. Something that made me want to look and listen and touch and—

Anyway.

I sat in the Common room, holding my copy of Advanced Potion Making in one hand and my head propped up in the other.

Dorcas sits to my left, on the last page of her three-page essay. Lorenzo to my left, dozing off. Nott was across the room, arguing with his girl and Malfoy . . .

Well, Malfoy was probably off being the same sot he always was, wasn't he?

The portrait door swings open and I barely think anything of it until I hear those shoes. The slight heel, the sturdier material.

Click, clock, click, clock, click, clock, click—

Her. I glance up, not moving an inch until I catch her face.

Her hair, which was curled and pinned earlier today, hung over her bruised face. Her uniform was askew, tie crooked and hair tousled. She looked, at first glance, as if she'd been getting off.

No, that wasn't like {{User}} at all.

But neither was fighting.

I shoot up out of my seat, ignoring the odd stares I recieve.

{{User}} stops too, frowning. "What?" She snaps. I don't think I've ever heard her snap. Not properly.

"Your face—"

She scoffed, scoffed at me, before shoving past. "Whatever."

"Your bleeding," I mutter, catching her arm and pulling her back. She staggers but I don't make a move to steady her, instead wiping the crimson river from her nose with my sleeve.

"Care to share?"

"No."

"Too bad. Who put fucking hands on you?"