Chapter 82 Questions Between the Lines
Curiosity, Liora had learned, was not a loud thing.
It didn’t announce itself with grand declarations or reckless decisions—not at first. It crept in quietly, threading through her thoughts in moments of stillness, nudging her attention toward details she had once ignored. A pause before an answer. A shadow crossing Mattheo’s expression when certain names were spoken. The careful way he chose his words, as if each one had been weighed for danger.
By the time Thursday arrived, curiosity had settled deep in her chest, steady and insistent.
She didn’t intend to interrogate him. That wasn’t her way. Instead, she let her questions slip naturally into conversation, soft as feathers, hoping he might not notice the pattern forming.
They walked side by side across the courtyard after Transfiguration, autumn sunlight spilling across the stone and catching in her hair. Students passed them in clusters, glancing more than necessary, whispering less than before but thinking just as loudly.
Mattheo’s presence still unsettled the air.
“Do you ever get tired of Hogwarts?” Liora asked casually, stepping around a puddle left behind by the morning rain.
Mattheo’s lips curved faintly. “It has its uses.”
“That wasn’t really an answer.”
“It was the safest one.”
She smiled at that, then tried again. “You know more spells than most people in our year. Did you… learn them early?”
He didn’t hesitate. That was what caught her attention.
“Some people grow up around books,” he said lightly. “Others around expectations.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a deflection.”
Liora laughed softly. “You’re very good at those.”
“I’ve had practice.”
They reached the edge of the courtyard, where ivy crept along the walls in thick green lines. For a moment, they stood in companionable silence. Liora could feel the question hovering between them, heavy but unspoken.
“People talk,” she said at last, choosing her words carefully. “About where magic comes from. How it shapes people.”
Mattheo’s gaze flicked toward her, sharp and assessing. “And what do you think?”
“I think magic reflects what’s already there,” she replied. “Fear makes it cruel. Care makes it protective.”
Something unreadable crossed his face.
“That’s a very optimistic view.”
“Is it wrong?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Just… dangerous.”
“Why?”
He met her eyes then, and for a heartbeat, the distance between them felt charged, like a drawn wand humming with restrained power.
“Because optimism invites disappointment,” he said. “And disappointment has a way of turning into something ugly.”
Before she could respond, he stepped away, motioning toward the castle doors. “Come on. You’ll be late for Herbology.”
Later that afternoon, Liora found him in the library.
He occupied his usual corner near the tall arched windows, parchment spread neatly across the table, quill moving in steady strokes. Sunlight filtered through the glass, painting pale gold lines across his hands.
She hesitated only a second before approaching.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked.
He glanced up, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. “For you? Never.”
She sat, placing her books down more loudly than necessary, then leaned back in her chair. “You know, for someone who doesn’t like attention, you’re very good at being mysterious.”
“That’s because mystery keeps people at a distance.”
“And you want that?”
His quill paused.
“Most of the time,” he said.
“Not all the time?”
A faint smirk appeared. “You’re persistent.”
She grinned. “Curious.”
He resumed writing. “Curiosity is how people get hurt.”
“Or how they learn the truth.”
Silence settled between them again, thicker this time. Liora watched him from the corner of her eye, noting the way his shoulders tensed ever so slightly.
“Do you believe people can change?” she asked suddenly.
That got his attention.
He set his quill down carefully. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether they’re allowed to.”
“Allowed by who?”
“By history,” he said. “By blood. By the expectations that come with both.”
Liora folded her hands together. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
She studied him, then ventured softly, “Is that why you keep things… guarded?”
His gaze flicked back to his parchment. “Guarded things survive longer.”
“Or they suffocate.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and something unsteady flickered behind his eyes.
“You ask dangerous questions,” he said.
She shrugged lightly. “You give dangerous answers.”
A ghost of a laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
As the days passed, Liora continued her quiet inquiry—not with direct accusations, but with thoughtful observations, gentle prompts, and moments of shared reflection.
She asked about spells he favoured and why. He answered with half-truths wrapped in philosophy.
She asked where he learned duelling footwork so precise it looked effortless. He claimed it was “muscle memory.”
She asked whether he believed names carried power.
That one made him go very still.
“Yes,” he said after a long pause. “Names are spells in their own right.”
“Then yours must be heavy.”
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair, eyes lifting to the enchanted ceiling above the common room where they sat that evening. “Heaviness keeps people grounded.”
“Or crushed,” she countered gently.
His lips pressed together. “You always see both sides.”
“I try.”
“Most people don’t want both sides,” he said. “They want a story that makes sense. Heroes and villains. Light and dark.”
“And what do you want?”
His gaze dropped to her, searching, guarded.
“I want to be left alone.”
She smiled softly. “You’re doing a terrible job of that.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Apparently.”
That night, long after curfew, Mattheo lay awake in his bed, staring at the stone ceiling of the dormitory. The shadows seemed closer than usual, pressing in with familiar weight.
Liora’s questions replayed in his mind.
Not accusatory. Not demanding.
Just… curious.
It unsettled him more than outright suspicion ever could.
Curiosity meant hope. It meant she believed there was something worth understanding beneath the rumours, beneath the name, beneath the carefully constructed walls he’d spent years perfecting.
He wasn’t sure he could give her answers without unravelling himself in the process.
The next afternoon, they found themselves alone in a quiet corridor near the Charms classrooms, the sounds of students echoing distantly.
“Mattheo,” Liora said softly, stopping him with a hand on his sleeve.
He turned, eyes dark, attentive.
“I’m not trying to pry,” she said. “I just… want to know you. The real you.”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he reached up gently and moved her hand from his sleeve, holding it briefly before letting go.
“The real me,” he said quietly, “is not a simple thing.”
“I don’t need simple.”
“You think that now.”
“Try me.”
Their eyes locked, tension humming between them.
“One day,” he said at last. “When the questions stop being safe.”
She nodded, understanding more than he realized.
As they parted, Liora felt her curiosity sharpen—not with suspicion, but with resolve.
And Mattheo walked away knowing one thing with terrifying clarity:
The more she asked, the closer she came to truths that could change everything.
And he wasn’t sure whether he feared losing her…
or being known.