XI. Private Lessons

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Violet had tried all the spells she could think of to force the snitch open, but to no avail, the object remained stubbornly shut. Its glistening sheen goading her to make a fool of herself once again. She had even asked Ravenclaws for answers to the damn riddle, knowing they're well-versed at such philosophical questions. Alas, their perspicacity was not enough for the obnoxious mystery he had left her. Perhaps there isn't an answer at all, and the inscription was a trick to fool her into thinking it was of importance. Her effort and energy wasted on a piece of circular metal that held nothing. However, her curious and stubborn self refused to let the matter rest. No, she would eventually open it, with either disappointment or astonishment waiting for her.

She twirled the snitch around her fingers, watching as the flames from the fireplace danced on its surface. Ever since she's acquired the object, she refused to part with it, unconsciously feeling for its coldness wherever she went. Godric, she even sleeps with it beneath her pillow. "Why won't you open, you stupid little—"

"Talking to yourself again, Violet?" Her slumped figure sat upright at the sudden voice, pocketing the golden snitch hastily as she scowled at the intruder. Mattheo clicked his tongue, "Careful now, I might think I'm marrying a lunatic," he said with a teasing grin.

She rolled her eyes at him, used to their banter by now. "Why are you still awake?" asked Violet in a huff. She glanced around the common room, surprised that the place was empty except for the two. She must've absentmindedly obsessed over the snitch for hours, trying various answers and spells, that she had forgotten about the time.

Mattheo hummed in thought, making his way towards the drawer at the far end of the room. "Can you help me with something?" he asked with his back turned to her, rummaging the desk for something she couldn't see from her vantage point.

"Depends on what it is," her eyes narrowed in suspicion, standing from her chair to check what he was fiddling with. A bittersweet symphony of chordophones and piano echoed across the common room, the dark orchestral music a befitting accompaniment to the gloom of the dungeons.

He turned around to face her, walking towards her haughtily. His chin high and eyes alight with confidence. "Teach me how to dance," he demanded, holding his hand up for her to take.

Violet couldn't help herself as an incredulous laugh left her lips. "You asked me out to a ball, but you don't know how to dance?" She managed to say between fits of laughter, clutching her stomach in pain as tears pricked the corner of her eyes.

Mattheo scowled at her, his rejected hand falling limply to hide behind his back in shame. "Well, I'm sorry that my mother abandoned me before she can even teach me how to walk," he said bitterly, narked at her mockery. Someone's in a mood. Violet immediately ceased her laughing, the sharp cry of the violins filling the dead air between them.

His mother was a sensitive topic, obviously.

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely after a moment's hesitation, "I was just surprised...No one taught you?"

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Surely you didn't expect the Dark Lord to teach me how to waltz, do you?"

Violet let out a snort at the thought of Voldemort teaching a toddler how to dance. The idea was ridiculous and hilarious, though she wondered about Mattheo's childhood quite often. She noticed the terms he would use to address the man, "Dark Lord" or "Lord Voldemort," but never "Father." Their relationship seemed estranged and strictly professional. Her eyes softened, knowing quite well what it felt to be part of a dysfunctional family. Dinners at the Lestrange Manor would often lead to screaming and broken plates, her parents' weaponized words aimed at each other, or at their children.

"It's quite easy," she took a step forward, grabbing his arm to wrap it behind her waist. One hand rested on his shoulder while the other clasped his. "Just follow my lead," she looked up to catch him staring at her lips. Violet cleared her throat awkwardly, the sound causing Mattheo to avert his gaze, "Right." She led him carefully at first, waltzing a beat slower than the music. He got the hang of it eventually, even spinning her around and dipping her back effortlessly.

"Not bad. You're quite the natural, Mr. Riddle." They've been dancing for a while now, the fast orchestral music shifting to a more somber tone. He pulled her closer, his breath warming her face, "Guess I have a good tutor."

Violet hummed in approval, her hand cautiously rising to gently trace over the scar on his left eye. He held his breath, blindsided by her soft touch. The intensity of his gaze daring her to pull away. "What happened to this?" she whispered softly, her thumb drawing circles on the raised skin.

Mattheo thought for a moment, debating if he should appease her curiosity. "I angered the Dark Lord," he said with a sigh, "I accidentally set one of his books on fire when I was playing with magic." Memories of his younger years flashed in his mind; he had just found out about his magic and was excited to practice it when he inadvertently burned his father's precious journal. When he saw the charred book on his desk, he ransacked the whole manor to find the petrified little boy, introducing the cruciatus curse to him. As if that wasn't enough punishment, he had ordered their house-elves to whip him, the long chord hitting his left cheek as he cried and cried throughout the night, tears mixing with blood as it soaked his shirt.

His features maintained its stoic facade, yet his eyes wavered. Violet didn't know what to say, afraid he might confuse her empathy for pity. Thus, she settled for casting a non-verbal cheering charm, watching as the ice veiling his face thaw to leave a warm smile directed at her. Noticing his mysterious change in demeanor, he arched an eyebrow, "What was that for?"

"Melancholia doesn't suit you," she replied cheekily, playfully whirling him around. Her partner, however, lost his footing at the abrupt movement, stumbling over her shoe as they toppled over in a mess of tangled limbs, his back catching her fall. "I take it back, you're an awful teacher," he mumbled, wincing slightly at the strain on his arm. They stared at each other, blinking a few times before breaking out into laughter.

Mattheo stole a glance at Violet, her eyes crinkling at the corners and a hidden dimple revealing itself on her cheek. His heart fluttered at the sound of her laughter, a more heavenly sonata than the symphony playing in the background. He allowed himself to forget about his task for a moment, greedily basking in her presence, the candor of it lingering around him even after she left. He liked it when she looked like that, carefree, blissful, beautiful.

He liked it when she looked at him like that.

Mattheo castigated himself for even entertaining such a foolish thought. His father would undoubtedly cast a crucio on him to bring the boy out of his delusions.

So, he pushed the image of her at the back of his mind, locked away with his selfish desires and dreams. Along with the shape of her lips.

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