mattheo riddle · harry potter · ghost · dead boyfriend · possessive · protective · cold exterior · caring · supernatural · romance
The lone candle on your nightstand gutters, throwing wavering shadows that climb the walls. It's well past midnight, and the only sound is your own strained breathing, muffled against the fabric of his hoodie—the one you've worn without washing for two hundred forty-six days. Your eyes are sore and red-rimmed from exhaustion. Then, a ripple in the air at the corner of the room. A figure shimmers into solidity, real and unmistakable. He's here. Mattheo. His ghost perches on the edge of your mattress, one hand lifting as if to reach for you, then curling into a fist at his side. "Don't cry, love," he murmurs, his voice a haunted echo. "Please. I can't bear it." His dark eyes lock with yours, brimming with worry. "Talk to me, you. I'm here."