Chapter 73 The Pause Between Heartbeats
The classroom was supposed to be empty. That was the unspoken rule of late evenings at Hogwarts—after curfew, the castle belonged to ghosts, portraits, and secrets. Yet here Liora was, standing in the centre of an unused Charms room with moonlight spilling through tall arched windows, her wand clenched a little too tightly in her hand.
She shouldn’t have been here.
She especially shouldn’t have been waiting.
The door creaked softly, and she didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“You’re early,” Mattheo said quietly, his voice slipping into the room like a shadow finding its place.
Liora exhaled, tension she hadn’t realized she was holding loosening in her chest. “You said midnight,” she replied. “It is midnight.”
He glanced toward the windows, then back at her. “You’re right.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “I forgot you notice details.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “You’re the one who keeps pointing them out.”
The room fell into a comfortable silence as he moved closer, setting his books down on a nearby desk. Candlelight flickered to life with a quiet incantation from his wand, bathing the space in a warm, golden glow that softened the sharp edges of the stone walls.
“What spell are we practicing?” she asked, trying to sound casual—trying not to think about how alone they were, or how the quiet seemed to bend inward around them.
“A stabilizing charm,” Mattheo replied. “Defensive. Subtle. Difficult to master.” His gaze flicked to her. “Perfect for you.”
“For me?” she echoed.
“You rush,” he said, matter-of-fact. “This one punishes impatience.”
Liora huffed. “I do not rush.”
He arched a brow. “You exploded a cauldron last week.”
“That was one time.”
“It was memorable.”
Despite herself, she laughed, the sound echoing faintly off the stone. “Fine. Show me.”
Mattheo stepped closer, lifting his wand. “The incantation is simple,” he said. “But the magic isn’t in the words. It’s in control. Intention.” He paused. “You don’t force this spell. You guide it.”
She nodded, watching intently as he demonstrated the movement—slow, deliberate, precise. His wand traced a careful arc in the air, magic shimmering briefly before settling into stillness.
“Your turn,” he said.
Liora mirrored the motion, whispering the incantation under her breath. The air around her wand shimmered… then sputtered, the magic collapsing in on itself.
She groaned. “I did exactly what you did.”
“You did,” Mattheo agreed, stepping closer. “But you’re thinking too loudly.”
She blinked. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he said softly, “you’re trying too hard to prove you can do it.”
His proximity made it hard to breathe. She could smell parchment and smoke and something unmistakably him—cool, sharp, grounding. Her pulse quickened despite herself.
“Again,” he instructed. “But this time—don’t rush the ending.”
She lifted her wand once more, focusing on the steady rhythm of her breathing. The flick, the arc, the pause—
Her magic wavered.
“Here,” Mattheo said suddenly, reaching out.
His hand closed gently over hers.
The contact was light—barely there—but it sent a shock through her entire body, sharp and unmistakable. His fingers were warm, steady, guiding her wrist just slightly lower, just slightly slower.
“That’s it,” he murmured, close enough now that she could feel the warmth of his breath near her temple. “Hold it. Don’t let go.”
The spell bloomed—soft, controlled, perfect.
They both stared at it.
Neither of them moved.
His hand was still over hers.
Liora’s breath caught, her thoughts scattering like startled birds. She became acutely aware of everything—the way his thumb rested against her knuckles, the way his chest rose and fell inches from her shoulder, the quiet hum of magic lingering in the air.
Mattheo noticed too.
She felt the moment he realized neither of them had pulled away.
Slowly, he looked down at their joined hands.
Then up at her.
Something unreadable flickered across his face—surprise, restraint, something dangerously close to want. His grip didn’t tighten, but it didn’t loosen either.
“You did it,” he said quietly.
His voice was different now. Lower. Careful.
“I—” Liora swallowed. “I couldn’t have without—”
“You could have,” he interrupted gently. “You just needed… grounding.”
The word lingered between them, heavy with meaning neither dared to name.
For a heartbeat—two—three—nothing existed beyond the space between them.
Then Liora became painfully aware of how close they were. How alone. How his hand still rested over hers like it belonged there.
She should pull away.
She didn’t.
Neither did he.
Instead, Mattheo slowly—deliberately—adjusted her grip once more, his fingers sliding ever so slightly against hers. Not an accident this time.
The magic in the room shifted.
“Mattheo,” she said softly, not sure what she meant to say after his name.
He inhaled, sharply. “We should—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “You should practice it again. Alone. To make sure it sticks.”
Reluctantly, he removed his hand.
The absence was immediate. Cold.
Liora’s fingers curled instinctively, as if trying to hold onto the ghost of his touch. She nodded, unable to trust her voice.
Mattheo stepped back, putting space between them like it was an act of discipline. “You’re… learning faster than you realize,” he added, eyes fixed anywhere but her.
“So are you,” she said quietly.
That made him look at her.
Really look.
For a moment, the careful walls he kept so firmly in place wavered. “Be careful, Liora,” he said, voice low. “With magic like this. With moments like this.”
Her heart thudded. “Are you warning me?”
His lips twitched, humourless. “I don’t warn people.”
Then, softer: “I protect them.”
Before she could respond, he extinguished the candles with a flick of his wand and turned toward the door.
“Same time tomorrow?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
He paused, hand on the handle.
“Yes,” he said after a beat. “Same time.”
And then he was gone.
Liora stood alone in the darkened classroom, heart racing, hand still tingling where his had been.
It hadn’t been a confession.
It hadn’t been a promise.
But it had been something.
And neither of them had pulled away.