prie

Draco Malfoy

the quite we hide in

the moment before it breaks part 1 part 2 (final)

Silver promises and green ribbons*

Tom Riddle

Something worth keeping

Matched

I see you part 1

⤷ The breaking point part 2

⤷ No more distance part 3

Mattheo Riddle

you were never supposed to matter

say it again

He’s done for

It’s just love

Absolutely fine.

Sinfully sweet

Break me, fix me

Not going anywhere

Noo I’m actually crying, thank you so much for taking the time to write this.

I get you, I was a reader staying up way too late, escaping into stories whenever I was overwhelmed with life. Fanfiction was the place where I could always find comfort and hope, no matter what was happening around me ❤️

It’s a huge part of why I started writing in the first place. I wanted to create the same feeling for someone else that so many authors created for me.

And the fact that my fics have become even a small part of that comfort for you is honestly one of the greatest compliments I could ever receive 🥹

More than anything, I hope you know that the comfort you’re finding in these fics says a lot about your strength too. Life can be so heavy sometimes, and the fact that you’re still finding little things that make you smile and make things feel lighter, matters!

I hope you keep finding stories that make you laugh, cry, scream at fictional men (mattheo is definitely getting screamed at for how he is), and forget about the world for a little while. And most importantly, I hope you remember that even on your darkest days, there are still people creating things with the hope of making someone like you feel a little less alone

Thank you for reading and Thankyou for the kind words, made my whole day!!!

If you need an idea, maybe something like this: he flirts with every girl except the reader, cruelly, while quietly watching her in a way that feels like he’s always aware of her. Everyone assumes he hates her because their conversations are always sharp and tense, like constant back and forth.

I’d love anything honestly, even if it’s not that exact idea. I just really enjoy the dynamic of a mean Mattheo slowburn enemies to lovers situation, especially if the reader manages to make him jealous at some point. I’d also love to see a more possessive side of him come out with her 🫶

Oh I love it!!!! Thankyou so much for asking, I’ve been begging for mattheo requests because my mind ran out of scenarios 😭💗

Summary: A bright, stubborn Hufflepuff refuses to stay away from the cold, guarded Mattheo Riddle.

Slow burn. Tension. Hidden softness.

9.9k words sheesh I don’t know when to stop :’)

—————————————————————————

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chaos, owls swooping low over tables, the clatter of silverware, and the low hum of gossip that never quite died down at Hogwarts.

Sunlight filtered through the enchanted ceiling, casting a soft golden glow over the Hufflepuff table where you sat, though your eyes were already drifting toward the Slytherin side.

Mattheo Riddle was there, as always, lounging in his seat like the hall belonged to him.

Dark curls slightly tousled, uniform tie loose in that deliberate way that screamed I don’t give a fuck, and an expression that could freeze fire.

He hadn’t looked your way once. He never did, not really.

You didn’t care.

Grabbing a fresh apple from the bowl, you wove through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times.

A few Hufflepuffs shot you curious glances, saying “again?” but you just smiled brightly and kept going. You weren’t afraid of him. Never had been. There was something beneath that cold exterior, something sharp and broken and real.

“Morning, Mattheo,” you said cheerfully, sliding into the empty seat beside him without waiting for an invitation. You placed the apple in front of him, perfectly polished. “They had the good ones today. Thought you might want it before Theo hogs them all.”

Summary : A tiny argument turns into a night full of chaos, stubbornness, and very soft feelings hiding underneath all the grumpy attitude.

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Flufffffff

—————————————————————————

You’d been in the Slytherin common room after dinner, perched on the arm of Mattheo’s chair like you always did, smiling bright enough to annoy half the room.

He was already in one of his moods shoulders tight, jaw clenched, fingers drumming against the armrest like the world owed him an apology for existing.

You’d only leaned down to press a quick kiss to his cheek and whisper that you’d saved him the last slice of treacle tart from the kitchens.

That was it. That was the spark.

“You think I need you running around after me like some pathetic little lapdog?” he’d snarled,, loud enough that the entire circle of Slytherins went dead silent.

“Always fluttering about, always smiling like everything’s fucking perfect. It’s exhausting. You’re exhausting.”

Your smile had faltered, but you tried to laugh it off at first…..because that’s what you did. You were the sunshine to his perpetual storm. “Matty, I was just……”

“Don’t call me that,” he cut in, eyes dark as the Black Lake. “And don’t act like you’re doing me some grand favour. I don’t need your coddling. I don’t need you at all right now. Go find someone else to play house with.”

The words sliced deeper than they should have. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks, the sting behind your eyes.

Pansy had shot him a warning glare from across the room, but Mattheo was already doubling down, cruel because he could be…..because he was Mattheo Riddle and the world had taught him that softness was a weakness.

“You’re just… too much,” he finished, leaning back like he hadn’t just gutted you in front of everyone. “Too bright. Too clingy. Too fucking naive. Grow up.”

You didn’t cry in front of them. You never did. You simply stood, chin trembling but voice steady enough to say, “Fine,” and turned on your heel. The portrait hole swung shut behind you with a soft click that felt like a slap.

The corridors were dim, torchlight flickering like it was mocking you. Your vision blurred with unshed tears as you hurried toward the stairs. The moving ones had always been tricky at night…..shifting without warning, especially when you weren’t paying attention. You weren’t paying attention now.

Your mind was still replaying his voice, the way he’d looked at you like you were an inconvenience.

One wrong step.

The stair beneath your foot lurched upward just as you tried to descend. Your ankle twisted violently. You pitched forward with a sharp cry, arms flailing.

The stone met you hard…….wrist first, then your side, then your ankle again as you tumbled the last few steps.

Pain exploded. White hot, nauseating. You knew immediately. The snap in your wrist, the sickening crunch in your ankle. Broken. Both of them.

You lay there for a second, gasping, tears finally spilling over. No one was around. The castle was quiet.

You tried to call out, but the pain stole your voice. It was too much. You couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even think straight.

Gritting your teeth, you dragged yourself up. Every movement was agony. You limped…..more like crawled, toward the infirmary wing, leaving a trail of quiet sobs and shallow breaths behind you.

Madam Pomfrey’s door was blessedly close. You pushed it open with your good shoulder and collapsed against the frame.

“Merlin’s beard child!” Madam Pomfrey was at your side in an instant, arms wrapping around you with surprising gentleness for a woman who barked orders like a drill sergeant. She eased you onto the nearest bed, her wand already scanning. “What on earth happened?”

You managed a broken whisper. “Stairs… slipped… didn’t see…”

She didn’t ask for more. The diagnosis was swift: “Clean breaks, both. Wrist and ankle. No magic can fix this overnight, you’ll need bone knitting potions and strict bed rest.

Three weeks minimum. No walking, no stairs, no arguments.” She gave you a stern look as she levitated pillows behind your back. “And no visitors unless they behave.”

You nodded weakly, pain making your head spin. She pressed a vial of sleeping potion to your lips. “Drink. It’ll knock you out clean. Side effects might linger, drowsiness, fuzzy memory but you need the rest.”

The potion tasted like honey. You swallowed, eyelids already heavy.

Before the world went black, you caught the sleeve of a passing first year who’d been delivering night time potions for someone else. “Please… tell Pansy… or Mattheo… infirmary… I’m here.”

The first year nodded, wide eyed, and scurried off.

Then nothing.

Morning light filtered through the tall infirmary windows, soft and golden. Mattheo strode into the Great Hall like nothing had happened, hands in his pockets, face set in its usual scowl.

He’d slept like shit, regret had gnawed at him all night, but he wasn’t about to show it.

You’d probably crashed in your dorm, pouting like always, and he’d apologize later. Maybe. Or maybe you’d just smile that stupid smile and forgive him anyway, because that’s what you did.

Pansy was at the Slytherin table, picking at toast. He dropped into the seat across from her, casual as ever.

“She sleep alright?” he asked, voice low. “Or did she keep you up with her dramatics?”

Pansy’s head snapped up. “What are you on about? She wasn’t in her bed. I thought she was with you.”

The words landed like a Bludger.

Mattheo froze. “She wasn’t with me. She stormed off after….”

A first year Hufflepuff skidded to a stop beside their table, breathless. “Um excuse me? Mattheo Riddle? Pansy Parkinson? The girl from Slytherin………the really nice one who smiles a lot, she told me last night to pass on a message. She’s in the infirmary. Something about stairs. She looked really hurt.”

Mattheo was on his feet before the kid finished speaking. Pansy was right behind him. They bolted from the Hall, robes flapping, ignoring the curious stares.

Mattheo’s heart hammered against his ribs like it wanted out. Infirmary. Hurt. Stairs. The fight replayed in his head on loop, every cruel word sharper now, poisoned with guilt.

They burst through the doors. Madam Pomfrey looked up from her desk, unsurprised.

“Mr. Riddle. Miss Parkinson. Calm yourselves before you scare the potions off the shelves.”

“Where is she?” Mattheo demanded, voice cracking despite himself.

The matron pointed to the curtained bed at the far end. “She’s resting. Sleeping draught was strong, side effects mean she’ll be out a bit longer. Broken wrist, broken ankle. Clean snaps. She limped the whole way here in agony rather than call for help. Brave girl. Foolish, but brave.”

Mattheo’s stomach dropped. He crossed the room in three strides and yanked the curtain back.

You were pale against the white sheets, wrist and ankle wrapped in thick bandages that glowed faintly with healing charms.

Your hair fanned across the pillow, lashes dark against your cheeks. You looked small. Fragile. Nothing like the sunshine that usually lit up every room you entered.

He sank into the chair beside the bed, hands shaking as he reached, but stopped short. Pansy hovered behind him, eyes wide.

Madam Pomfrey’s voice softened. “She’ll be fine with rest. Three weeks in this bed. No exceptions. She asked for you both last night, before the potion took hold. Kept whispering your name, Mattheo, even as she drifted off.”

Pansy exhaled shakily. “Bloody hell, Riddle. What did you say to her?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Minutes stretched. You stirred first a soft murmur, eyelids fluttering. Your voice was hoarse, barely there. “Matty…?”

He leaned in instantly. “I’m here.”

Your eyes opened, hazy from the potion. Pain flickered across your face as you tried to shift, but you smiled anyway, cracked but real. “You came.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. Then the scolding hit like a reflex. “What the hell were you thinking? Storming off like that in the middle of the night? Not watching the stairs? You could’ve……Merlin, you did break bones, you absolute idiot. Do you have any idea how stupid….”

“Mattheo!” Pansy snapped, voice sharp as a hex. “She’s lying there broken because of your stupid fight, and you’re scolding her? Shut it. Now.”

She glared at him, then softened as she looked at you. “Rest up, love. I’ll be back later with your favourite sweets. Don’t let this git bully you.” She squeezed your good hand once and left, curtain swishing behind her.

Silence settled, thick and heavy.

Mattheo’s anger didn’t leave. It simmered….anger at you for leaving, at himself for pushing, at the universe for letting you get hurt.

You watched him, eyes glassy. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For… for whatever I did. I didn’t mean to be too much. I just… I love taking care of you. But I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” you repeated, voice cracking. Tears welled up again. “I’m so sorry I made you angry. I never want to exhaust you. I’ll… I’ll try to be less. Less clingy. Less bright. Just… please don’t hate me.”

The words hit him harder than any curse. Hate you? He exhaled sharply, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse fluttered wildly. “I don’t hate you,” he muttered.

“I could never. I was a bastard. A cruel, selfish bastard. You’re not too much. You’re….” He stopped, swallowing.

“You’re the only good thing in this shit world, and I took it out on you because I’m fucked up. Because you make me feel things I don’t know how to handle.”

Your breath hitched. “Matty…”

He released your hand only to lace his fingers through yours properly this time, careful of the bandages, but holding on like you might vanish.

“Don’t you dare apologise again. This is on me. You slipped because I made you run off crying. You limped here alone in pain because of me. Three weeks in this bed… I’m staying. Every day. I’ll hex anyone who tries to move you. I’ll read to you, feed you that damn treacle tart, whatever you need. Just… let me fix this.”

You squeezed his hand, the potion making your eyelids droop again. “You don’t have to stay the whole time. I know you hate the infirmary smell.”

“Shut up,” he said, but there was no bite. He brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, touch feather light now. “I hate seeing you hurt more. So I’m not going anywhere. And when you’re better… we’re going to the Astronomy Tower at midnight. You can be as clingy and bright as you want. I’ll even smile back. Maybe.”

A sleepy giggle escaped you, the sound like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Promise?”

“On my mother’s grave,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “And if you ever scare me like this again, I’ll kill you myself. Slowly. After I make sure you’re okay.”

You drifted off smiling, hand still in his.

Mattheo stayed. He pulled the chair closer, boots propped on the bedframe, thumb tracing idle circles on your skin. Pansy peeked in later with sweets and a knowing smirk, but he waved her off with a glare that said not now.

Madam Pomfrey tried to shoo him out after curfew on the second night, wand raised like a threat.

He just leaned back in the creaky wooden chair, arms crossed, and gave her the dead eyed Riddle stare that made even seventh years flinch.

“She’s not staying here alone,” he said flatly. “Deal with it or I’ll sleep on the floor. Your choice, matron.”

Pomfrey huffed, muttered something about “impossible boys” and “Slytherin stubbornness,” but eventually transfigured a narrow cot beside your bed and charmed a privacy screen around the two of you.

She also left a strict list of instructions pinned to the curtain with a permanent sticking charm.

You woke up on the morning of day three to the smell of fresh treacle tart and the sound of Mattheo’s low, irritated voice arguing with a house elf.

“…and if it’s not still warm when it gets here, I’ll personally make sure you never forget my name. Understand?”

The elf squeaked and vanished with a pop.

You blinked slowly, the last traces of the sleeping potion making everything feel soft and fuzzy.

Your wrist and ankle throbbed dully under the thick bandages, but the pain was manageable now.

Mattheo was already sitting on the edge of your bed, rearranging the mountain of pillows behind your back with surprisingly gentle hands.

“Morning, idiot,” he grunted without looking at you. “Stop squirming. You’ll mess up the bone knitting charms.”

You smiled sleepily, sunshine breaking through even in the sterile infirmary light. “Good morning to you too, Matty.”

He flicked your forehead lightly. “Don’t ‘Matty’ me when you look like a broken doll. Sit up properly.”

He didn’t wait for you to obey. One arm slid behind your shoulders, carefully lifting you while his other hand fluffed and stacked pillows until you were propped up like a princess on a throne of white linen.

Only then did he reach for the tray the elf had delivered: warm treacle tart, fresh strawberries, pumpkin juice, and a small bowl of nutrient potion that smelled suspiciously like chocolate.

“Open,” he ordered, already cutting a piece of tart with precise, almost aggressive motions.

You laughed softly. “I can feed myself, you know. My left hand is fine…..”

“Wrong. Your dominant hand is the broken one, genius. Now open your mouth before I pry it open myself.”

He held the fork to your lips, eyes narrowed like this was a battle he refused to lose.

You took the bite obediently, the sweet warmth spreading across your tongue. His gaze stayed locked on your face the entire time, tracking every chew like he was daring the tart to upset your stomach.

“Good girl,” he muttered under his breath when you swallowed. Then, louder and grumpier “Don’t look so smug. This doesn’t mean anything. I’m just making sure you don’t waste away and make me look bad.”

You beamed at him anyway. “Thank you, Matty.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful, but the tips of his ears went pink.

He kept feeding you anyway, alternating tart, strawberries, and sips of the potion, until the plate was clean. When a tiny bit of tart stuck to the corner of your mouth, he wiped it away with his thumb, then scowled at his own hand like it had betrayed him.

“Disgusting,” he grumbled. “You’re turning me soft.”

—————————————————————————

By the end of the first week, the infirmary had become Mattheo’s personal domain.

He’d dragged in extra blankets from the Slytherin dungeons because “these regulation ones are thinner than parchment.”

He’d threatened a group of giggling third years who tried to visit you until they left sweets and ran.

He even convinced (blackmailed) Blaise to smuggle in your favourite books and the soft knitted blanket Pansy had made you last Christmas.

Every morning he arrived before breakfast with a new stack of things.

Day five: He levitated a small mountain of pillows charmed to stay perfectly cool.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he snapped when you cooed over them. “Your back was hurting yesterday. I’m not carrying you around like a sack of potatoes when you’re healed if your spine’s fucked.”

Day seven: He showed up with a charmed music box that played soft, slow melodies nothing too cheerful, because “that would be excessive.”

You reached for his hand when he set it on the bedside table. He let you take it for three whole seconds before pulling away with a huff.

“Don’t get used to this coddling shit. As soon as you’re out of here, I’m going back to being an arsehole.”

But he never did.

The coddling got meaner the more he cared.

When you tried to shift yourself higher up the bed on day nine and winced, he was on you in a second large hands gripping your waist, lifting you effortlessly while muttering curses.

“Fucking hell, woman. Are you trying to re break it? Sit still or I’ll tie you to the bedposts. And not in the fun way.”

You giggled despite the pain. “There’s a fun way?”

His eyes darkened. “Don’t tempt me while you’re injured. I have restraint, but it’s thin.”

He spent the next hour reading aloud from one of your romance novels in the most deadpan, grumpy voice imaginable, pausing every few paragraphs to insult the characters.

“This prick doesn’t deserve her. He’s being nice for five pages and she’s already swooning? Pathetic. Real men brood properly.”

You were laughing so hard your ankle twinged. Mattheo immediately stopped, hand hovering over your bandaged leg like he could magically soothe it.

“See? This is why you shouldn’t laugh at my voice. It’s medically dangerous.”

One afternoon you were restless, leg itching under the cast like bandage. You whimpered softly without meaning to.

Mattheo’s head snapped up from the Potions essay he was half heartedly writing on your bedside table.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just….”

He was already climbing onto the narrow bed beside you, careful not to jostle your injuries.

He pulled you gently against his chest, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other resting possessively over your stomach.

“Better?” he asked gruffly, chin resting on top of your head.

You nodded, melting into him. “Much.”

“Tch. You’re so needy.” His fingers traced slow, soothing circles on your arm. “Clingy. Can’t even handle three weeks without turning me into your personal heating charm.”

You tilted your head up to kiss his jaw. He froze, then turned his face away like he was annoyed, except his arm tightened around you.

“Don’t start that. I’m still mad at you for scaring the shit out of me.”

“You’re mad at me?” you teased softly.

“Furious,” he confirmed, voice low and rough. But he pressed a lingering kiss to your temple anyway. “Next time you want to storm off, you do it into my arms. Got it?”

“Got it.”

—————————————————————————

By week three, you were going crazy but healing beautifully. Madam Pomfrey declared you could start putting light weight on your ankle in a few days, with crutches.

Mattheo took the news like a personal insult.

“You’re not using those stupid crutches alone,” he declared, arms crossed as he loomed over your bed. “I’ll carry you. Everywhere. Don’t argue.”

“Matty, that’s ridiculous. I can”

“Ridiculous is you thinking I’m letting you hobble around like a wounded animal where anyone can see.” His voice dropped, suddenly serious. “I put you in that bed. I’m getting you out of it. My way.”

The last night before discharge, he crawled into bed with you again, earlier than usual. The privacy screen was drawn. The music box played softly. He had one hand buried in your hair, the other carefully resting on your now much-improved wrist.

“You know,” he murmured into the dark, “I still think you’re too bright. Too good. Too fucking forgiving.”

You hummed, tracing patterns on his chest with your good fingers. “And yet here you are. Spoiling me rotten in your grumpy way.”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then,

“I’d burn the world down before I let anything else hurt you. Including me.” His voice was rough, almost mean in its intensity. “So don’t you dare thank me again. Just… stay. Be clingy. Be sunshine. Be mine. I’ll complain the whole time, but I’ll never push you away again.”

You smiled against his collarbone. “Promise?”

“On every damn thing I own,” he said, pressing a fierce kiss to your lipsgrumpy, possessive, and so full of love it made your chest ache. “Now shut up and sleep. I’m not carrying your exhausted arse tomorrow if you stay up giggling.”

You fell asleep laughing softly, wrapped in the arms of the grumpiest, meanest, most devoted boyfriend in all of Hogwarts.

—————————————————————————

Bonus :

A few weeks later,

It was nothing, really. Just like last time. A silly disagreement over whether you should skip the upcoming Hogsmeade trip to finish your Arithmancy essay or go with him anyway.

You’d smiled and said you could do both, maybe copy notes from Pansy later. Mattheo, already in one of his darker moods after a frustrating Quidditch practice, had snapped.

“You’re not superhuman, even if you prance around acting like it,” he’d growled, voice low enough that only you and a few nearby Slytherins could hear.

“Always trying to please everyone, always spreading yourself thin like some pathetic ray of sunshine who thinks the world will fall apart without her smile. It’s exhausting. Just pick one thing for once instead of fluttering around like you have to fix everything.”

The words stung exactly the way they used to. Your lower lip trembled for half a second, but you lifted your chin, eyes bright with hurt and defiance.

“Fine,” you huffed, cheeks flushing pink. You stomped your foot once, actually stomped, under the table, the sound muffled by the stone floor.

“If I’m so exhausting, maybe I should just…..”

You didn’t finish. Because his earlier words echoed in your head, warm and grumpy and fierce, spoken in the quiet of the infirmary weeks ago.

“Next time you want to storm off, you do it into my arms. Got it?”

So instead of turning toward the doors, you did exactly that.

You pushed back from the bench, marched the three steps around the table, and launched yourself straight into Mattheo’s lap, burying your face in his chest with a dramatic little huff.

Your arms wrapped tight around his neck, legs draping sideways over his thighs as you curled into him like a disgruntled kitten demanding pets.

The entire table went silent for a beat. Then Pansy choked on her pumpkin juice, and Theo whistled low under his breath.

Mattheo stiffened at first, arms hovering in surprise. But you felt the exact moment he melted, his broad hands settling on your back, one sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair despite the scowl still etched on his face.

“You little menace,” he muttered, voice rough but impossibly soft around the edges. “I was trying to be mean to you.”

“I know,” you mumbled into his sweater, voice muffled and pouty.

“But you told me where to storm off to. So here I am. In your arms. Exactly like you said.”

He let out a long, defeated sigh that ruffled your hair. His chin dropped to rest on top of your head, and you felt his chest vibrate with a reluctant chuckle.

“Merlin, you’re going to be the death of me. I say one semi decent thing when you’re drugged up on potions and you weaponise it forever.”

You peeked up at him, chin on his sternum, eyes sparkling with that unstoppable sunshine even through the remnants of hurt. “It worked, didn’t it? You can’t be mean and then expect me to run away. I only run to you now.”

Mattheo’s dark eyes softened, the storm in them quieting to a gentle haze. Around you, the Hall’s noise picked back up, but it felt distant like the two of you existed in your own little bubble.

His thumb brushed slow circles on your lower back, the touch grumpy yet reverent, as if he still couldn’t believe you kept choosing him.

“Brat,” he grumbled, but he leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose. “I didn’t mean it. Any of it. You’re not exhausting. You’re… you’re the only reason I don’t want to set the whole damn castle on fire some days.”

You beamed, the last of the sting fading away like mist under morning sun. “I know you didn’t mean it. You’re just grumpy when you’re tired. And you missed lunch again today, didn’t you?”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. Instead, he shifted you more securely on his lap, one arm banded around your waist like he had no intention of letting you move anytime soon. With his free hand, he reached for the plate of warm chocolate biscuits that had just appeared via house elf and broke one in half, holding it to your lips.

“Open,” he ordered in that familiar mean coddle tone. “And don’t argue. You’re stress eating sugar now because of me, so I’m fixing it.”

You took the bite happily, giggling around the crumbly sweetness. “See? This is why I run to you. Best arms in Hogwarts. And they come with biscuits.”

Mattheo’s lips twitched, almost a smile. He fed you the rest of the biscuit in small pieces, then wiped a stray chocolate smear from your cheek with his thumb before sucking it off absentmindedly. The casual intimacy of it made your heart flutter.

You stayed curled in his lap for the rest of dinner, his chin on your head, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your side under the table.

Every so often he’d mutter something grumpy “Sit still, you’re wiggling too much” but never once did he try to move you. When Pansy teased him about turning into a human cushion, he just flipped her off with the hand not currently stroking your hair.

Later, as the Hall emptied and the torches burned lower, Mattheo stood with you still in his arms, carrying you bridal style toward the dungeons without asking. You looped your arms around his neck, legs swinging lightly.

“Matty?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

He paused in the corridor, moonlight from a high window catching the soft vulnerability that only ever showed for you. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closed for a moment.

“I love you more,” he rasped, voice thick

You kissed him then slow, sweet, full of all the sunshine he claimed to find exhausting but secretly craved. When you pulled back, he was smiling. Small, crooked, and entirely real.

“Take me to the common room?” you asked, batting your lashes.

The dungeons were quiet by the time Mattheo carried you through the Slytherin common room. A few lingering students glanced up, but one sharp look from him sent them back to their homework.

The fire crackled low in the emerald lit hearth, casting warm shadows across the leather couches and silver accents.

He didn’t set you down right away. Instead, he dropped into the biggest armchair by the fire, keeping you securely in his lap, your legs draped over the armrest and your head tucked under his chin.

“You’re still holding me,” you murmured, smiling against his chest.

“Obviously,” he grunted, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles along your spine while the other held your thigh possessively.

“You stomped your foot at me earlier. That earns you at least another hour of being spoiled whether you like it or not.”

You giggled softly, the sound bubbling up bright and easy.

He’d fed you two more biscuits on the way, grumbled the entire time about how you were “going to get crumbs in his robes,” and yet he’d brushed every single one away with careful fingers.

Now his touch lingered, warm and steady, like he needed the contact just as much as you did.

After a few peaceful minutes of listening to the fire and his heartbeat, you shifted slightly so you could look up at him.

The playful sparkle in your eyes faded into something deeper, more serious. You reached up, cupping his cheek with one gentle hand, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his jaw.

“Matty,” you said quietly, voice soft but steady. Your gaze locked onto his dark eyes, holding them without flinching.

The usual warmth in your expression remained, but now it was laced with earnest sincerity. “I love you. I love you so much it feels like my chest might burst sometimes. And I need you to hear this.”

He went still beneath you, his grumpy mask cracking just enough for a flicker of vulnerability to show through. His hand paused on your back.

You continued, never breaking eye contact. “If I ever get too much… if I’m being too clingy, too bright, too smiley, too anything that starts to exhaust you again……tell me. Really tell me. Not in that mean, cutting way you do when you’re frustrated. Just… say it gently. Or even grumpily, like you usually are. I can take it. I don’t want you holding it in until it explodes and hurts us both. Because I’d rather tone it down a little and keep you happy than lose moments like this.”

Mattheo stared at you for a long moment, the firelight dancing in his eyes. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then he let out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you might vanish.

“Merlin,” he whispered, voice rough with emotion. “You’re sitting here after I was a prick to you again, telling me you love me and giving me permission to be honest with you?” He shook his head, a crooked, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “You’re going to ruin me, sunshine. Completely ruin me.”

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, noses brushing. His next words came out low and gravelly, but wrapped in so much warmth it felt like a promise.

“I love you too. More than I know how to say without sounding like a sap. And yeah… sometimes the brightness is a lot. Sometimes it scares me because I don’t feel like I deserve it. But I don’t want you to dim it. Not ever. If it gets too much, I’ll tell you like this. Quietly. No cruelty. Because the last thing I want is to push you away again and watch you run off into actual danger.”

You smiled, soft and radiant, eyes shining with happy tears you didn’t let fall. “Good. That’s all I needed.”

He kissed you then, slow, deep, and full of every unsaid apology and every fierce declaration he couldn’t quite voice. When he pulled back, his thumb traced your bottom lip.

“You’re not too much,” he murmured, voice gruff but eyes glowing with affection. “You’re exactly enough.“

You snuggled deeper into his chest, letting his arms cocoon you completely. The common room was empty now, just the two of you and the gentle crackle of the fire. Mattheo reached for a nearby throw blanket, draping it over you both with one hand while the other never stopped stroking your hair.

“Stay right here tonight,” he ordered softly, though it sounded more like a plea. “No dorms. No leaving my arms. I’m still mad at myself for earlier, so you have to let me coddle you until I feel better.”

You laughed quietly, already drifting in the safety of his hold. “Deal. But only if you let me be clingy right back.”

“Always,” he whispered against your temple, pressing one last kiss there. “Always, love.”

Tom riddle x reader

Summary : The day isn’t over yet

Intense physical intimacy, power imbalance, mature themes

Part 1 Part 2

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You arrived at 6:40,

Twenty minutes early this time.

The corridor outside the Defence classroom was still wrapped in deep pre-dawn, torches turned low so the flames barely there.

Your pulse hadn’t settled since yesterday, every time you closed your eyes you felt his mouth on yours, the firm grip in your hair, the way his control had finally cracked open just enough to let you taste what was underneath.

Sleep had been impossible. All night you’d lay there burning, replaying the way he’d looked at you when he stepped back: wrecked, hungry, already counting the hours.

The door stood ajar again. An invitation he didn’t need to speak aloud.

You slipped inside.

He was waiting.

Not seated behind the desk this time. Standing near the tall windows that overlooked the sleeping grounds, hands clasped behind his back, black robes falling in those perfect severe lines.

The silver prefect badge caught the faint blue light and flashed once, cold and authoritative. But when he turned at the sound of the door, the mask slipped, just for a second.

Eyes darker than usual, jaw tight, like he’d been fighting the same sleepless night you had.

The latch clicked shut behind you.

Silence swallowed everything.

He crossed the room without hurry, each step measured, controlled, but the air between you already felt thicker, heavier.

He stopped barely a foot away. Close enough that the cedar and ink scent wrapped around you.

Close enough to see the faint shadow under his eyes and the way his chest rose a little too fast.

“No parchment,” he said quietly. Voice low, a little rougher than usual. “No excuses. Good.”

You swallowed, heat already crawling up your neck. “You said earlier. I came.”

His gaze traced your face slowly, down to your mouth, then back up. Something possessive flickered there. “You did.”

For a long moment he just looked at you. The power imbalance hung heavy in the quiet: him the Head Boy, the prefect who could dock points or assign detention with a single word, you the student standing too close in an empty classroom before the sun was even up.

It should have felt wrong. Instead it made your stomach tighten with anticipation.

“Tell me,” he murmured, stepping even closer until the toes of his shoes brushed the hem of your robes. “What kept you awake last night?”

Your breath hitched. Yesterday’s kiss still lingered on your lips like a brand.

“I thought about your hands,” you whispered. “How they finally touched me. How close you stood between my knees. I kept wondering what it would feel like if you stopped holding back completely.”

His eyes darkened. One hand lifted, slow, deliberate, hovering at your waist without quite landing. The almost touch made you lean forward instinctively.

“Like this?” he asked.

You nodded. “Closer.”

He closed the last inch. His palm settled on your hip, firm and warm through the fabric.

Fingers spread like he was claiming space. The contact sent a rush of heat straight through you, pooling low and sharp.

Your own hands moved on their own, pressing against his chest, right over the prefect badge and the rapid thud of his heart beneath it. He wasn’t as steady as he pretended.

“Keep talking,” he said, voice dropping lower, fraying at the edges. “No hiding. Not from me.”

“I thought about you kissing me again,” you breathed, fingers curling into his robes. “Harder. Like you meant it. Like the whole castle could burn down and you wouldn’t stop.”

A low sound escaped him, half groan, half sigh. His other hand came up to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing your lower lip exactly like yesterday. This time he didn’t pull away. He tilted your chin up.

“Then stop wondering,” he whispered.

He kissed you.

Not tentative. Not slow like the first time. This was need, lips pressing firm and demanding, tongue sliding against yours the moment you gasped. He tasted like mint.

One hand stayed on your hip, pulling you flush against him; the other threaded into your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted.

You melted into it, hands sliding up to grip his shoulders. The power of him, taller, stronger, the prefect who could end this with one word, made everything sharper, hotter.

He backed you up until your thighs hit the edge of the desk, then lifted you onto it with easy strength, stepping between your knees like he belonged there.

Papers scattered. You didn’t care.

His mouth left yours only to trail hot, open kisses down your jaw, along the sensitive skin of your throat. Teeth grazed lightly, just enough to make you arch into him with a soft sound. His hand slid higher on your thigh, still over robes, but pushing fabric aside, palm burning against you.

“Tom” you whispered, using his first name like a secret.

He shuddered at the sound. Pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes wild, lips swollen, the perfect prefect mask completely gone.

“Say it again,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling.

“Tom.”

He groaned quietly and kissed you harder, pressing you back against the desk. His body covered yours, weight heavy but controlled, hips settling between your thighs so you could feel exactly how much he wanted this. Hard and insistent against you.

The slow burn that had built for days finally igniting, but still restrained, still teasing the edge of more.

His hand slipped further under your robes, fingers tracing the bare skin just above your knee, stroking slow circles that made your breath come in short, desperate bursts.

Every touch felt deliberate, like he was learning you, savoring the way you trembled under his authority.

“You make it impossible to focus,” he muttered against your neck, voice wrecked. “Sitting in my classroom. Looking at me like that. Forcing me to want things a prefect has no right to take.”

Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, tugging lightly. “Then take them. I’m right here. I want you to.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, dark, intense, burning with that same hunger. One hand braced beside your head on the desk, the other still gripping your thigh possessively.

“Not here,” he said, voice strained, even as his body stayed pressed against yours. “Not when the castle could wake any minute.”

But he didn’t step away. Instead he leaned in again, brushing another slow, claiming kiss across your lips, softer this time, but full of promise.

“Tonight,” he whispered. “After curfew. My office near the dungeons. Understand?”

You nodded, heart fluttering wildly. “I’ll be there.”

His thumb stroked your cheek once, gentle, but the grip on your thigh stayed firm, a reminder of who held the power.

“Don’t be late,” he added, the prefect command slipping back in, low and dangerous.

You slid off the desk on shaky legs, robes rumpled, hair messy from his fingers.

He watched every movement, eyes tracking you like prey he’d already decided belonged to him.

At the door you paused and looked back.

He was leaning against the desk now, arms braced, chest still rising and falling too quickly. The silver badge glinted, but the boy behind it looked undone, raw want written across his usually perfect face.

“Seven sharp,” you said softly, a small breathless smile tugging at your lips.

His eyes flared with fresh hunger.

You slipped out before the pull between you could drag you back.

The corridor felt too bright, too cold against your flushed skin.

Your thigh still burned where his hand had been.

And behind the closed door, Tom Riddle, Head Boy, prefect, barely holding onto control, ran a hand through his hair and let out one quiet, frustrated breath.

He was already counting the minutes until tonight.

So were you.

You slipped into the Defence classroom at exactly 8:00 am, heart still racing from the morning encounter on his desk.

The usual hum of students settling in felt distant, like background noise to the secret that now burned between your ribs.

Your lips still tingled. Your thigh still remembered the firm press of his hand. And when your eyes found Tom at the front of the room, everything else faded.

He stood behind the podium in his crisp black robes, silver prefect badge gleaming under the torchlight like a warning.

His posture was perfect, shoulders straight, chin lifted, every inch the untouchable Head Boy in control of the lesson. But when his gaze landed on you, something shifted. Just for you. A flicker in those midnight eyes. A tightening of his jaw. The barest pause in his breathing that no one else would notice.

You moved to the front row without being told. Third seat from the center. Close enough that when he leaned forward to write on the board, you could see the faint scar on his wrist and smell the cedar clinging to his robes.

He didn’t acknowledge you out loud. Not yet.

“Today,” he began, voice low and smooth as velvet over steel, “we discuss the theory of magical compulsion and how it differs from the Imperius Curse in subtlety and long term effect.”

The class scribbled notes. Quills scratched across parchment. But every time Tom posed a question, his attention drifted, inevitably, deliberately…..toward you.

“Miss,” he said after ten minutes, chalk poised mid-sentence. “Explain why a victim of prolonged subtle compulsion might never realize they were influenced.”

Your mouth went dry. Sitting this close, with the memory of his body pressed between your thighs still fresh, made every word feel loaded. You swallowed and answered, voice steadier than you felt.

“Because the compulsion doesn’t force action. It… plants desire. Makes the victim believe the thoughts are their own. It’s slower. More intimate. They start wanting what the caster wants.”

Tom’s eyes held yours for three full heartbeats. Too long. The room seemed to hold its breath with you.

“Precisely,” he said quietly. Approval wrapped in something darker. “Intimate. Personal. The victim becomes complicit without ever knowing the strings were pulled.”

Heat crawled up your neck. His words felt aimed straight at the ache low in your belly, the one he’d started this morning and left unfinished.

He turned back to the board, writing in that elegant script, but his shadow fell across your desk like a caress. Every few minutes his gaze flicked back. Not obvious. Never obvious. A prefect couldn’t afford to be obvious. But you felt it. The weight. The hunger he was leashing in front of sixty other students.

Halfway through the lesson he called on someone else, but his eyes stayed on you while they answered. When the student finished, Tom nodded once, then added softly, “And what happens when the victim begins to crave the compulsion itself?”

The question hung. He was looking at you again.

Your pulse thundered. You answered without being directly called this time, voice low but clear. “They stop fighting. They lean into it. Because fighting starts to feel… worse than surrender.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His fingers tightened around the chalk for a fraction of a second. “Correct. Surrender can feel like freedom when the alternative is denial.”

The air between you crackled. No one else seemed to notice the undercurrent, the way his words wrapped around memories of his mouth on yours, his hand on your thigh, the way he’d groaned your name against your skin. But you did. Every syllable felt like a private touch.

He continued the lecture, voice steady and hypnotic, but the tension built with every passing minute.

When he walked between the rows to check a student’s notes, he passed directly behind your chair. His robes brushed your shoulder, barely there, accidental to anyone watching. To you it was deliberate. A spark.

His fingers ghosted along the back of your chair for half a second as he moved on, close enough that you caught the faint metallic edge of his scent mixed with the warmth of his body.

You shifted in your seat, thighs pressing together against the slow throb he’d left unresolved that morning. He noticed. Of course he noticed. When he returned to the front, his eyes met yours again, darker now, pupils wider. The prefect mask held, but barely.

“Miss,” he said during the final twenty minutes, leaning slightly on the podium so his forearms rested on the wood.

“One more. If the caster begins to lose control of the compulsion… what risk do they face?”

You met his gaze head-on, something reckless rising in your chest.

“The caster becomes as trapped as the victim. The desire becomes mutual. Unstoppable. They both end up wanting the same thing… no matter the consequences.”

Silence stretched for two heartbeats.

Tom’s fingers flexed on the podium. Knuckles pale. “Very good,” he murmured. The praise felt intimate. Private. Like a hand sliding higher up your thigh under the desk where no one could see.

The rest of the class passed in a haze. Notes blurred. Other students’ answers faded. All you registered was him, his voice wrapping around the room like smoke, his eyes finding yours again and again, the subtle way he adjusted his stance when your gaze dropped to his mouth for too long.

When the bell finally rang, students packed up slowly, chatting. Tom dismissed them with a single nod, but his eyes stayed locked on you.

“Miss. Remain behind for a moment.”

The words were casual. Official. No one thought twice. A few glances, a couple of smirks from Slytherins who assumed it was another point deduction, and then the room emptied.

The door clicked shut.

Silencing charms shimmered into place without him lifting his wand.

He rounded the podium slowly, each step deliberate. Stopped directly in front of your desk. Loomed.

“You were distracted today,” he said quietly. Voice no longer for the class. Low. Rough at the edges. “Every time I looked at you, your cheeks flushed. Your thighs pressed together. Tell me why.”

Heat flooded your face. You stayed seated, looking up at him, powerful, controlled, prefect authority radiating off him even as his control frayed for you.

“Because I couldn’t stop thinking about this morning,” you whispered. “Your hand on my thigh. Your mouth. How you left me wanting more.”

His eyes darkened further. He braced one hand on your desk, leaning down until his face was inches from yours. The other hand lifted, hovering beside your cheek like yesterday, then finally brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Slow. Possessive.

“Good,” he murmured. “I want you distracted. I want you sitting there thinking about my hands while I teach. About how easily I could keep you after class every day.”

Your breath caught. You leaned into the light touch, heart fluttering wildly.

“Tonight,” he continued, thumb tracing your jawline. “My office. After curfew. Wear something easy to remove.”

The command sent another rush of heat through you. Power imbalance sharp and thrilling, he could order you to stay, to speak, to come to him, and you would.

“Yes, Riddle,” you breathed, the title tasting different now. Intimate. Dangerous.

His grip tightened slightly on your jaw, firm, claiming, before he released you and stepped back. Distance again. Restraint snapping back into place like a whip.

“Dismissed,” he said, voice returning to that smooth prefect tone, but his eyes promised everything he couldn’t say aloud.

You stood on unsteady legs, gathering your things. At the door you glanced back.

He was watching you, arms crossed, prefect badge shining, expression unreadable to anyone else.

But you saw it, the hunger, the anticipation, the slow burn that had finally ignited and was about to consume you both after curfew.

You stepped into the corridor, legs weak, skin tingling.

Class had never felt so long.

Or so perfect.

—————————————————————————

Mattheo riddle x Reader

A midnight craving turns into something far sweeter than chocolate cake.

Tooth rotting fluff, like TOO sweet and oh did I mention sweet?

—————————————————————————

You couldn’t sleep.

The dormitory was quiet except for the soft snores of your roommates and the occasional creaks of the ancient castle.

Your stomach, however, refused to settle. It growled again, louder this time, reminding you of the half eaten treacle tart you’d left at dinner because Pansy had dragged you away mid bite for “girl talk.”

You slipped out of bed, tugging on your warmest cardigan over your pajamas, and tiptoed out. The corridors were dimly lit by floating torches, shadows dancing on the stone walls.

You knew the way to the kitchens by heart now, behind the painting of the fruit bowl on the Hufflepuff basement level. A quick tickle of the pear, and the door swung open.

The kitchens were alive even at this hour. House elves bustled about, polishing silver and stirring pots that smelled like cinnamon and warm vanilla. One spotted you immediately, enormous eyes lighting up.

“Miss! What can Tinky get for you at this late hour?” it squeaked, already reaching for a tray.

You smiled sheepishly. “Just something small? Maybe… chocolate cake? Or biscuits? Whatever’s easy.”

Before you could finish, three more elves appeared, piling a plate high with thick slices of fudgy chocolate cake, warm shortbread, a bowl of fresh strawberries, and a steaming mug of hot chocolate topped with whipped cream and tiny marshmallows.

You laughed softly. “Thank you so much. You’re too kind.”

As you perched on a stool at the long wooden counter, nibbling a strawberry, the door creaked again.

You froze.

Mattheo stepped in, hair slightly mussed like he’d been running his hands through it, black hoodie unzipped over his pajama shirt, wand tucked casually in his waistband. He looked like he hadn’t been sleeping either.

His eyes found you instantly. That familiar smirk tugged at his lips.

“Lost, princess?” he drawled, voice low and teasing as he sauntered over.

You felt your cheeks heat. “I was hungry. I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

He stopped right in front of you, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of your hips, caging you in without touching. “I always notice when you’re gone.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool even as your heart tripped. “Stalker.”

“Guilty.” He glanced at the overloaded plate and raised a brow. “Planning to eat all that alone?”

“The elves insisted…”

“Of course they did. You’re their favorite.” He reached past you, plucking a piece of cake with his fingers, no fork, naturally, and held it up to your lips. “Open.”

You hesitated, then parted your lips. He fed you the bite slowly, watching your reaction with dark, intent eyes. Chocolate melted on your tongue, rich and perfect.

“Good?” he murmured.

You nodded, swallowing. “Very.”

He licked a smudge of frosting from his thumb, never breaking eye contact. “My turn.”

Before you could protest, you scooped a small piece and held it out. He leaned in, taking the bite directly from your fingers, lips brushing your skin just enough to send sparks up your arm. His eyes fluttered closed for a second like he was savoring more than just the cake.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, half laughing.

He opened his eyes, softer now. “You started it, sweetheart. Sharing food with me like that… dangerous.”

You fed him another bite, giggling when he nipped lightly at your fingertip. “You’re the dangerous one.”

Mattheo lifted you effortlessly onto the counter so you were sitting higher, legs dangling. He stepped between them, hands settling on your waist.

“Better,” he said, voice quieter. “Now I can reach you properly.”

He dipped his head, kissing the corner of your mouth where a bit of chocolate lingered. Then again, slower, deeper. You melted against him, fingers curling into his hoodie.

When he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead rested against yours. “You know you’re gonna ruin me, right?”

You tilted your head. “Ruin you?”

“Yeah.” His thumb traced your bottom lip. “I used to sneak down here alone at night because the quiet was the only thing that shut my head up. Now I sneak down here hoping I’ll find you. Hoping you’ll smile at me like I’m not completely fucked up. Hoping you’ll share your stupid cake and look at me like I’m worth something.”

Your heart squeezed. You cupped his face gently. “You are worth something. To me, you’re worth everything.”

He exhaled shakily, like the words physically hit him. Then he kissed you again, soft, lingering, tasting like chocolate and vulnerability he rarely showed.

You were still perched on the counter, legs swinging gently, sharing the last strawberry with Mattheo. His fingers lingered on yours a second longer than necessary as he took the bite, eyes locked on you with that quiet intensity that always made your stomach flip.

The house elves had mostly retreated to their corners, polishing already spotless pots, folding napkins into tiny swans, but a few lingered nearby, peeking over the edges of tables with wide, sparkling eyes. Tinky, the one who’d first greeted you, hovered closest, clutching a tea towel like it was a lifeline.

Mattheo noticed. He always noticed everything. “What’s with the audience, Tinky?” he asked, voice low and amused, not taking his gaze off you.

Tinky’s ears twitched. The little elf shuffled forward, wringing the towel. “Master Mattheo and Miss are… so happy together! Tinky sees it every time! The way Master looks at Miss, like she hung the moon and stars herself!”

You blushed instantly, ducking your head. “Tinky, that’s sweet, but…”

Another elf, Winky? No, this one was Pippy, with a tiny apron covered in flour, popped up beside Tinky, nodding vigorously. “Yes, yes! Miss feeds Master cake with her own fingers! And Master kisses the chocolate away! It is most romantic!”

Mattheo’s smirk grew, slow and dangerous in the best way. He slid an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. “Hear that, sweetheart? Romantic.”

You elbowed him lightly. “Don’t encourage them.”

But the elves were on a roll now. A third one,small even for an elf, with enormous green eyes, climbed onto a stool for better view. “Miss and Master should be married already!” it squeaked. “Then every night could be like this,cake and kisses and no more sneaking!”

Tinky gasped in delighted horror. “Pippy! You speaks too bold!”

Pippy crossed tiny arms. “But it is true! House elves knows love when we sees it. They belongs together forever!”

You felt your face burn hotter than the ovens. Mattheo, though, Mattheo just chuckled, low and warm in your ear. “They’re not wrong.”

Your eyes widened as you turned to him. “Mattheo”

He shrugged, casual as anything, but his thumb was tracing slow circles on your hip under his coat. “What? I’m not saying today. Or tomorrow. But…” He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a murmur only you could hear. “The thought of you wearing my ring? Of coming down here at midnight every night, married, no more hiding in corridors? Doesn’t sound half bad.”

The elves collectively squealed, quietly, of course, because even they knew not to wake the whole castle. Tinky clasped her hands together. “Oh! Master said it! Tinky will start planning! We can make the biggest cake! With towers of chocolate and strawberries and…”

“Easy, Tinky,” Mattheo cut in, smirking but gentle. “We’ll get there. No rushing my girl.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. He looked back, smug mask cracked just enough to show the real thing underneath, something fierce and tender and utterly yours.

Pippy whispered loudly to the others, “See? They will marry! House elves always right about these things!”

You hid your face in Mattheo’s chest, laughing despite yourself. He wrapped both arms around you, chin resting on your head.

“Guess we’ve got matchmakers now,” he muttered.

“Apparently,” you whispered back.

The kitchen erupted in joyful, hushed cheers. Tinky nearly fainted from excitement.

The kitchen had quieted down a bit after the elves’ excited outburst about marriage and cakes. Tinky and Pippy were now at the far end, pretending to scrub a spotless cauldron while stealing glances and whispering furiously. The air still smelled like warm chocolate and vanilla, and the floating candles cast a soft, golden glow over everything.

You were still on the counter, legs dangling, Mattheo’s hands resting loosely on your thighs as he stood between them. He’d just finished licking the last bit of frosting from your finger with that slow, deliberate smirk that always made your pulse stutter.

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling a rush of boldness mixed with nerves, the kind that only came out at 2 a.m. in an empty kitchen with house elves as unwitting witnesses.

“Mattheo?” Your voice came out smaller than you meant.

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing playfully. “Hmm?”

You fiddled with the hem of his hoodie, avoiding his gaze for a second before peeking up through your lashes. “You know… our first date? The one in the Room of Requirement when it turned into that little picnic with just fairy lights and those stolen butterbeers?”

He nodded slowly, smirk softening into something curious. “The one where you spilled butterbeer down your shirt and blamed me for distracting you? Yeah. Vividly.”

You laughed under your breath, cheeks already heating. “I… um. I almost proposed to you that night.”

He froze. Completely. The smug edge vanished, replaced by wide eyed surprise. “You what?”

“Not like… with a ring or anything dramatic,” you rushed to explain, words tumbling out shyly. “It was stupid and impulsive and I was so nervous the whole time because you looked so unfairly handsome under those lights, and you kept smiling at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. And I just… thought, ‘God, I want to marry this boy. Right now. Tonight.’ I almost said it out loud. Like, ‘Mattheo Riddle, will you…’ and then I chickened out and asked for another butterbeer instead.”

You risked a glance up. He was staring at you like you’d just cast a stunning spell on him, mouth slightly open, dark eyes searching your face as if trying to decide if you were teasing.

Then, slowly, that familiar smirk crept back, but it was different. Softer. Warmer. Almost… awed.

“You almost proposed on the first date,” he repeated, voice low and rough like he was tasting the words.

You nodded, mortified but honest. “Playfully. But… seriously. Underneath the joke. I was already gone for you. Completely.”

For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you. Then he stepped closer, hands sliding up to cup your face gently, thumbs brushing your flushed cheeks.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathed. “You have no idea how much I wish you’d said it.”

Your heart skipped. “Really?”

He nodded, forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Really. I spent that whole night trying not to scare you off, keeping the dark shit locked down, acting like I wasn’t already obsessed. If you’d proposed right then? I would’ve said yes so fast your head would’ve spun. Ring or no ring. Butterbeer stains and all.”

You let out a shaky laugh, eyes stinging a little. “I thought you’d think I was crazy.”

“Maybe a little,” he murmured, lips brushing yours in the lightest tease of a kiss. “But my kind of crazy. The kind I want forever.”

From across the kitchen came a tiny, delighted gasp, followed by frantic shushing. Tinky had her hands clasped over her mouth, eyes shining. Pippy was bouncing on her toes.

“Miss almost proposed!” Pippy stage whispered. “On the first date! Oh, house elves were right, true love!”

Mattheo didn’t even look away from you. He just smiled, real, unguarded, the one he saved only for these quiet moments and kissed you properly. Slow. Deep. Like he was sealing a promise he’d been waiting to make.

When he pulled back, he kept you close, voice barely above a whisper. “Next time you feel like proposing… don’t chicken out. Say it. I’ll be ready with a yes before you finish the question.”

You smiled against his lips, shy but glowing. “Noted.”

He stole one more quick kiss, then glanced over at the elves with mock sternness. “And you lot,no rushing the cake plans just yet. But… keep practicing. Might need the biggest one someday soon.”

The kitchen erupted in hushed, joyful squeals again.

Summary : After agreeing to a three month separation, Mattheo insists he’s perfectly fine without her. Unfortunately for him, everyone else knows he’s lying.

I absolutely love writing Mattheo as a cinnamon roll-lover boy

——————————————————

The Slytherin common room was quieter than usual that evening, the green tinted fire crackling low in the hearth.

Most students had scattered to the library or their dorms, leaving only a handful of them.

Mattheo Riddle slouched in the high backed armchair opposite the largest leather sofa, legs kicked out, arms crossed, chin tucked against his chest.

He hadn’t spoken more than three sentences all day.

Draco Malfoy lounged on the arm of the sofa, flipping idly through a potions journal he wasn’t really reading.

Theodore Nott sat cross legged on the floor beside the coffee table, pretending to organize a deck of Exploding Snap cards while actually watching Mattheo like one watches a wounded animal.

“You miss her?” Draco finally asked, voice light but pointed.

Mattheo’s jaw tightened. “No.”

Theo snorted without looking up. “You’ve been whiny for weeks, mate. Insufferable, really.”

“I have not,” Mattheo snapped, but the pout was already forming, tugging at the corner of his mouth. He looked smaller somehow, shoulders hunched, eyes shadowed. “I’m absolutely fine.”

The words sounded ridiculous even to him.

Behind the sofa hidden in the deep shadow where the firelight didn’t quite reach, you pressed your lips together to keep from laughing.

You’d slipped through the portrait hole ten minutes earlier, travel cloak still dusted with apparition soot, heart hammering.

Theo had spotted you first, eyes widening before a slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

Draco had followed a heartbeat later, mouthing “stay down” before casually steering the conversation toward Mattheo.

You waited.

Draco tilted his head. “You sure? Because the last time someone asked how you were, you nearly hexed the fifth year who dared speak to you.”

“I’m fine,” Mattheo repeated, quieter this time. The pout deepened. “She’s only been gone two months. It’s not even… it’s not a big deal.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “Two months, eleven days. Not that you’re counting.”

Mattheo glared at the fire.

That was your cue.

You rose slowly, silently, until you were standing just behind the back of the sofa. Mattheo still hadn’t noticed, his gaze was fixed on the flames like they owed him something.

You cleared your throat, soft.

“Alright then,” you said, voice warm and teasing. “If you don’t miss me at all… I’ll just go back.”

Mattheo froze.

Two seconds. Three.

His head snapped up.

Dark eyes met yours.

For a heartbeat he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, like his brain was rebooting.

Then he was moving.

He launched out of the chair so fast the cushions fell. Long legs cleared the coffee table in one stride; he vaulted over the back of the sofa like it wasn’t even there.

The next second he crashed into you, arms locking around your waist, face buried in the crook of your neck, so hard you stumbled back a step before he caught you.

He was shaking.

You felt it in the way his fingers dug into your back, the way his breath hitched against your skin.

“You’re here,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You’re…..you’re really here.”

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, fingers threading into his curls. “Surprise.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, really look, palms sliding up to cradle your face like you might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His thumbs brushed your cheekbones, eyes glassy, searching every inch of you as though memorizing you all over again.

Then the tears spilled.

Not dramatic sobs, just quiet, helpless ones that made your own eyes sting.

“I missed you,” he choked out, voice small and childish and so unlike the Mattheo everyone else knew. “I missed you so fucking much. I hated it. I hated every second. Don’t…don’t ever do that again. I’m not letting you go anywhere. Ever.”

Behind you, Draco barked a laugh. “Merlin, he’s gone soft.”

Theo stood, smirking. “Told you he was lying.”

They didn’t wait for a reply. Draco clapped Theo on the shoulder and the two of them slipped out through the dungeon corridor, leaving the common room empty except for the low hiss of the fire and the two of you tangled together.

Mattheo didn’t even glance after them.

He just kept staring at you, thumbs still stroking your cheeks, like he needed constant proof.

You reached up, brushing the tear tracks away with your fingertips, then pressed soft kisses along his jaw, his cheekbones, the corner of his mouth, light, fluttering, everywhere you could reach.

He let out a shaky breath.

Then you kissed him properly.

Deep. Slow. Desperate.

His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head so he could take more, taste more, convince himself you weren’t a dream. When you finally broke apart you were both breathless, foreheads pressed together, noses brushing.

You smiled against his lips.

“So…” you murmured, teasing. “You don’t miss me at all, huh?”

Mattheo groaned, half laugh, half sob.

“Shut up,” he muttered, but there was no heat in it. He only pulled you closer, arms banding around you like iron. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again.”

And then, without another word, he twisted.

The familiar pull of apparition sucked the air from your lungs.

When the world steadied again you were in his dorm room.

Door already locked behind you.

Curtains drawn.

Just the two of you.

He didn’t let go.

Not even for a second.

The room still smelled faintly of cedar and old parchment, Mattheo’s scent, the one that had clung to your pillow for weeks after you left.

The four poster bed was unmade, sheets twisted like he’d spent most nights fighting sleep. A half empty bottle of firewhisky sat on the nightstand next to a crumpled letter you recognized as yours, the edges worn from being read too many times.

He hadn’t let go of you yet.

Even after the apparition settled, his arms stayed locked around your waist, face pressed so hard into the side of your neck you could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse against your skin. You stood in the middle of the room, travel bag still slung over one shoulder, cloak hanging crooked.

“Mattheo,” you murmured, half laughing, half breathless. “I’m not going anywhere. You can breathe.”

He shook his head against you small, stubborn, childlike.

“No,” he mumbled into your collarbone. “Not letting go. Not yet.”

You felt the tremor in his shoulders again, quieter this time, but still there. The tears had stopped, but his lashes were wet when he finally lifted his head. Up close like this you could see everything he’d tried to hide from everyone else: the dark circles, the way his eyes were red rimmed, the faint tremble in his lower lip he couldn’t quite control.

He looked wrecked.

And he looked like he was finally allowing himself to fall apart now that you were here to catch him.

You reached up, cupped his face with both hands. He leaned into the touch like a cat starved for warmth.

“I cut the trip short because I couldn’t stand it anymore either,” you admitted softly. “Every owl from Pansy said you were getting worse. Theo sent me a howler last week actually threatened to hex me if I didn’t come back soon. Said you nearly set the greenhouse on fire during Herbology because someone mentioned long distance relationships don’t work.”

Mattheo huffed a watery laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Was an accident,” he muttered. “Mostly.”

You brushed your thumbs under his eyes, wiping away the last traces of tears.

“Liar.”

He swallowed hard. “I kept thinking what if you decided you liked it better there? What if you met someone who didn’t come with… all of this?” He gestured vaguely at himself at the shadows under his eyes, at the reputation that followed the name Riddle like smoke. “What if three months turned into six? Or forever?”

Your heart twisted.

You slid your fingers into his hair, tugging gently until he met your gaze.

“I hated every second I wasn’t with you,” you told him. “The food tasted wrong. The bed was too big. I kept waking up reaching for you and panicking when you weren’t there. I came back two weeks early because I was going insane without you, you absolute menace.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but still too fragile.

“You’re the menace,” he whispered. “Leaving me like that.”

“I know.” You leaned in, pressed your forehead to his. “I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes at the contact, breathing you in like you were oxygen after drowning.

“Don’t apologize,” he said roughly. “Just… don’t do it again. Please.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. Then the other corner. Then the faint scar above his eyebrow. Slow. Deliberate. Like you were mapping every inch of him to prove you were staying.

“I won’t,” you promised between kisses. “Not without you.”

That seemed to break something in him.

He made a small, wrecked sound and crushed you against him again lifting you clean off the floor this time, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. He carried you the three steps to the bed and dropped down onto it with you still in his arms, both of you tumbling into the mess of blankets.

He didn’t stop touching you.

Fingers in your hair. Palm sliding under your shirt to press flat against the small of your back. Nose buried in the curve of your shoulder. Lips brushing your pulse point over and over like he was counting your heartbeats to make sure they were real.

You curled around him just as tightly, legs tangled, hands roaming relearning the shape of his shoulders, the dip of his spine, the way his breath hitched when you kissed the spot just below his ear.

Minutes passed like that. Maybe longer. Time felt slippery.

Eventually he pulled back just enough to look at you again really look. His expression was soft in a way no one else ever got to see: open, unguarded, a little scared still.

You smiled, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip.

He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to the center of your palm. Then another. Then he turned it over and kissed each knuckle, slow and reverent.

“I cried,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “First week. Alone. Like a fucking child. Didn’t tell anyone.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know,” you whispered back. “Pansy told me. Said you pretended it was allergies when Blaise asked why your eyes were red.”

He groaned, mortified, and buried his face in your neck again.

“Kill me now.”

You laughed softly, carding fingers through his curls.

“Never.”

He stayed like that for a long moment face hidden, breathing you in then shifted so he could see you properly. One hand came up to cradle the side of your face.

“I love you,” he said. Simple. Raw. Like the words had been clawing at his throat for months. “So fucking much it hurts. Don’t ever leave me thinking I’m not enough again.”

Tears pricked your own eyes this time.

“I love you too,” you answered, voice cracking. “And you’re more than enough. You always have been.”

He kissed you then slow, deep, aching. Not desperate anymore. Just… home.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were smiling, small, shaky, but real.

He tucked you against his chest, chin resting on top of your head, arms banded around you like he could physically keep the world from taking you away again.

“Stay,” he murmured into your hair.

You pressed a kiss over his heart.

“Always.”

He exhaled a long, trembling sound of relief and held you tighter.

Neither of you moved for the rest of the night.

Just breathing. Touching. Whispering stupid, soft things into the dark until sleep finally took you both.

Together.

Where you belonged.

The first thing you registered upon waking was warmth too much of it, cocooned around you like a living blanket.

Mattheo had you completely enveloped: one arm slung possessively across your waist, the other tucked under your head like a pillow, legs tangled so thoroughly with yours that moving would require a full strategic retreat.

His face was buried in the crook of your neck, slow steady breaths fanning across your collarbone. Soft snores every few minutes. Peaceful. Almost innocent.

You shifted just a fraction and his grip tightened instantly, instinctive, like even in sleep he refused to let an inch of space form between you.

A tiny, involuntary smile tugged at your lips.

Sunlight slanted through the narrow window slits high on the dungeon wall, painting thin gold stripes across the dark green hangings of his four poster.

The room still smelled like last night: cedar, firewhisky, the faint salt of tears, and the two of you.

You stayed like that for a while, tracing idle patterns on his bare back with your fingertips, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. Eventually his lashes fluttered. A low, sleepy groan vibrated against your throat.

“Mm. Don’t move,” he mumbled, voice gravel-rough with sleep. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that an hour ago,” you whispered, amused.

“Liar.” He nuzzled closer, lips brushing your pulse. “You’re warm. Stay.”

You laughed softly. “I’m not going anywhere, you clingy octopus.”

He huffed, but the corner of his mouth curved up. Then finally he cracked one eye open. Dark curls a disaster. Cheeks still faintly flushed from sleep. He looked at you like you were the first good thing he’d seen in months.

“Morning,” he rasped.

“Morning, baby.”

That single word seemed to melt whatever was left of his defenses. He rolled you both so you were underneath him, forearms bracketing your head, weight carefully held so he didn’t crush you. Then he just… looked. Minutes of it. Like he was afraid blinking would make you vanish.

“You’re really here,” he said.

You reached up, smoothed his hair back. “Still here.”

He dropped his forehead to yours. Closed his eyes. Exhaled like he’d been holding the breath for eighty three days.

Then he kissed you slow, lazy, morning-soft. No urgency this time. Just gratitude. Relief. Home.

You were still tangled and kissing when the door banged open.

“Oi, Riddle! You alive in there or did you finally hex yourself into oblivion last ni…oh.”

Pansy Parkinson froze in the doorway, one perfectly manicured hand still on the handle. Behind her: Draco, Blaise, Theo, all three wearing varying degrees of shit eating grins.

Mattheo didn’t even flinch. He just groaned long, dramatic and buried his face back in your neck like if he ignored them hard enough they’d disappear.

You, however, peeked over his shoulder and waved sheepishly. “Hi.”

Pansy’s jaw dropped. Then she shrieked, actual, delighted shriek and launched herself at the bed.

“You’re BACK!” She threw herself across both of you, hugging you around Mattheo’s shoulders. “I knew it! I told them you’d crack before the three months were up!”

“Pans,” Mattheo growled, muffled. “Get. Off.”

She ignored him, squeezing harder. “Look at him! He’s gone full koala. I’ve never seen him this pathetic. It’s beautiful.”

Draco leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. “Pathetic is generous. The man spent last night crying into his pillow like a first year. We could hear him through the wall.”

“I did not,” Mattheo snapped, finally lifting his head. His hair was even worse now. Eyes narrowed to slits. “And if you don’t leave in the next five seconds”

“You’ll what?” Theo drawled, sauntering closer. He perched on the edge of the bed like he owned it. “Hex us? With what wand? You’ve been too busy hugging your girlfriend like she’s a teddy bear to even notice where you left it.”

Blaise snorted. “Mate, you literally apparated out of the common room with her last night like some lovesick Romeo. Didn’t even say goodnight. Rude.”

Mattheo’s ears went pink.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

Pansy finally rolled off you both, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. She poked Mattheo’s calf. “Admit it. You were insufferable. Whiny. Moody. Threatened to curse half the fifth years for breathing too loud near her empty seat at breakfast.”

“I was not whiny,” he muttered, but he was already sliding an arm back around your waist, pulling you flush against his side like a human shield.

Theo raised an eyebrow. “You told Flitwick you were ‘emotionally compromised’ when he asked why you blew up your cauldron in Charms. Emotionally. Compromised.”

The tips of Mattheo’s ears were scarlet now.

Draco pushed off the doorframe, smirking wider. “And don’t think we forgot the time you stared at her owl post for twenty straight minutes without blinking. Thought you were trying to set it on fire with your mind.”

“I hate all of you,” Mattheo announced flatly.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore…you laughed, bright and helpless, hiding your face against his shoulder.

He turned to glare at you, betrayed. “You too?”

“Sorry,” you wheezed, still giggling. “But… emotionally compromised?”

He groaned again longer, more theatrical and flopped face first into the pillow beside you.

“Kill me,” he said into the feathers. “Just end it.”

Pansy patted his head like he was a sad puppy. “There, there. Your dignity died weeks ago. We’ve all accepted it.”

Theo leaned in conspiratorially. “So. How long before he lets her out of arm’s reach? My bet’s on never.”

“Never,” Blaise agreed. “He’ll start carrying her around like a princess. Watch.”

Mattheo lifted his head just enough to shoot them a murderous look. “I will end you. Slowly.”

But his hand never left your waist. And when you pressed a soft kiss to his temple, the murderous look melted into something embarrassingly fond.

Draco sighed theatrically. “Right. We’ve seen enough. Let’s leave the tragic lovers to their tragic love.”

“Tragic?” Pansy scoffed as they all started filing out. “This is peak comedy. I’m telling everyone at breakfast.”

“Pansy!” Mattheo started, warning in his voice.

“Too late!” she sang, already halfway out the door. “See you at lunch, lovebirds!”

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Mattheo exhaled through his nose. Then he rolled onto his back, dragging you with him so you ended up sprawled across his chest.

“They’re never going to let this go,” he muttered.

“Nope.”

He stared at the canopy for a long moment. Then quietly, almost shyly:

“Worth it.”

You propped your chin on his sternum, smiling down at him.

“Yeah?”

He cupped your face with both hands. Thumb brushing your lower lip.

“Every second of teasing. Every single one.” His voice dropped. “You’re here. That’s all I care about.”

You leaned down and kissed him—slow, sweet, lingering.

When you pulled back, his eyes were soft again. No walls. No bravado.

“Breakfast?” you asked.

He considered it. Then shook his head.

“Five more minutes,” he said, echoing his earlier plea.

You laughed and settled against him again.

“Deal.”

He wrapped both arms around you, tight.

And for the first time in months, the morning felt right.

No teasing mattered.

No distance.

Just this.

Just him.

Just you.

Summary : He’s already waiting when you arrive early. What starts as a simple command turns into something far more charged. Control hangs by a thread, and by the time the moment ends, nothing feels quite as steady as it did before.

Intense physical intimacy, loss of control, mature themes.

Part 1

Tag list : @sweetestsallow @little-ponkan

—————————————————————————

You arrived at 7:35.

Twenty five minutes early.

The corridor outside the Defence classroom was silent, the castle still caught in that grey pre dawn hush where even the portraits pretended to sleep.

Your heart hadn’t stopped racing since yesterday; all night it had hammered against your ribs like it was trying to escape and run straight to him.

The door stood ajar again like he’d left it that way on purpose. Like he knew you’d come early and he wanted you to feel the invitation without him ever saying the words.

You slipped inside.

He wasn’t standing at the window this time.

He was seated behind the professor’s desk, Merrythought’s desk, really, but no one dared remind him of that when he used it. Not marking essays. Not reviewing notes.

Just waiting.

Elbows braced on the dark wood, fingers steepled under his chin, head boy badge catching the low blue light from the sconces. His eyes were already on the doorway. On you.

The second you crossed the threshold his gaze sharpened, focused, unblinking, possessive in a way that made your knees feel temporarily optional.

You closed the door behind you.

The latch clicked like a secret being sealed.

Silence rushed in to fill the space.

He didn’t stand. Didn’t speak. Just watched as you walked toward him, slow steps across the flagstones, the way something caught knows running would only make the chase sweeter.

You stopped directly in front of his desk.

Exactly where the front row would have put you yesterday.

No parchment. No quill. Nothing to hide behind. Just you, him, and three feet of electric air thick with cedar, old ink, and that faint metallic edge that always seemed to cling to him like the scent of a storm about to break.

His eyes moved over you slowly. Thoroughly. Down the line of your throat. Across the too fast rise and fall of your chest under your robes.

Back up to lock on yours. Something in his expression had darkened. Pupils blown wide.

“Sit,” he said.

But he didn’t point to a student desk.

He tilted his head toward the edge of his own desk.

Right in front of where he sat.

Your breath caught hard.

You moved before your brain could talk you out of it, perched on the very edge of the polished black wood, knees pressed tight together, hands braced on either side of your hips. The position tipped you forward slightly. Brought your face closer to his.

He still hadn’t moved.

Only tilted his head a fraction more, studying the way your body responded to being this close.

“You obeyed,” he murmured. Voice so low it sank into your bones. “No hesitation.”

“I told you I wouldn’t,” you whispered back.

His mouth curved not quite a smile. Hungrier. Sharper.

“No,” he agreed softly. “You didn’t.”

He rose then slow, controlled, unfolding from the chair like shadow given shape and intent.

He stepped around the desk until he stood between your knees.

Not touching.

Never touching.

But so close the heat rolling off him seeped through the tiny gap between your thighs and his legs. You had to tip your head back to keep looking at him.

He stared down at you like you were something priceless and breakable and potentially lethal.

One long finger lifted hovered beside your cheek. No contact.

“You’re trembling,” he observed. Almost clinical. Almost gentle.

“I’m not afraid,” you said. The words tasted like metal and truth and lie all at once.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

“No,” he said again, softer. “You’re not.”

That finger drifted lower tracing the air above the frantic pulse hammering at the base of your throat.

You swallowed. The motion made the barest whisper of his fingertip brush your skin.

A spark jumped between you.

His jaw clenched. His pupils swallowed what was left of the grey in his eyes.

“Tell me,” he said, voice rougher now, fraying at the edges like perfect control finally wearing thin, “what you think about when you lie awake at night.”

Your lips parted. No sound came at first.

His hand moved again still barely touching fingers ghosting along the line of your collarbone, following the edge of your robes without ever crossing beneath the fabric.

“I think—” Your voice cracked. “I think about the way you look at me. Like I’m something you want to take apart slowly. Piece by fascinated piece.”

His breath hitched just once. The smallest, most devastating sound you’d ever heard from him.

“Continue.”

“I think about what happens if you ever stop holding back.”

The confession hung there raw, reckless, naked.

He leaned in.

Closer.

Until his mouth hovered a single heartbeat from yours.

You could feel the warmth of his exhale on your lips. Could see every silver fleck in his irises up close. Could smell mint and ink and the faint cedar that was just him.

His voice was barely a breath.

“And if I did?”

Your hands shaking lifted on instinct. Fingers curled into the front of his robes, right over the badge and the pounding of his heart beneath it. Not pulling. Just holding on.

“Then I’d let you,” you whispered.

Something inside him snapped.

Quietly. Irreversibly.

His hand finally moved cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. Skin on skin. Electric.

He tilted your chin up that last fraction.

And kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t careful.

It was the slow, deliberate collapse of months? years? of restraint. Lips firm, claiming, tasting like every time he’d looked at you and forced himself to look away.

You gasped against his mouth.

He swallowed it.

One hand slid to the nape of your neck fingers threading into your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted. The other braced on the desk beside your hip, caging without trapping.

The kiss went deeper slow, thorough, devastating. He kissed like he was mapping every secret you’d ever tried to keep. Like he’d been starving for this and hadn’t even known how badly until right now.

When he finally pulled back just enough to breathe his forehead dropped to yours.

Both of you were shaking.

His thumb stroked once along your lower lip swollen, sensitive.

“Tomorrow,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low, “you come here again.”

A beat.

“Earlier.”

You nodded. Words were beyond you.

His grip tightened in your hair for one possessive second.

“And when you do…”

He brushed his lips over yours again—soft this time. A promise wrapped in threat.

“…you tell me every single thing you think about when no one else is watching.”

He stepped back.

One single step.

It felt like the whole world moved with him.

You slid off the desk on legs that barely remembered how to work.

He watched every unsteady movement—eyes dark, chest rising and falling too fast for the prefect mask to hold.

At the door you paused. Turned.

He was still standing exactly where you’d left him hands braced on the desk, knuckles bone white, staring at you like a man who had just tasted something forbidden and would never be the same.

“Riddle,” you said quietly.

His gaze snapped to yours.

You let the smallest, most dangerous smile curve your lips.

“I’ll be here at seven.”

His eyes flared dark, bright, hungry.

You slipped through the door before either of you could break what was left of the fragile thread holding everything together.

The corridor was freezing.

Your lips burned.

And behind that closed door, Tom Riddle Head Boy, pressed two fingers to his mouth, still tasting you, and let out one long, shuddering breath he’d been holding for far too long.

—————————————————————————————————————

Tom Riddle x Reader

Summary : One minute past time. One look held too long. One mistake you won’t make twice.

Slow burn tension, Power imbalance, Tom and reader are adults

—————————————————————————————————————

The Defence Against the Dark Arts room always smelled the same, musty old books, cedar from the sconces, and that faint cold metal bite you get right before something bad or really good happens with a wand.

You were never late.

Not out of any particular devotion to punctuality, but because tardiness meant attracting his notice.

And Tom Riddle, Head Boy, already carrying himself like the Ministry owed him a private Floo connection, noticed everything. Every uneven hem, every whispered joke that died halfway across the room, every heartbeat that skipped when his shadow passed too close.

Today the oak door groaned shut behind you at 8:01.

One minute.

One single, unforgivable minute.

Sixty heads turned in perfect, eerie synchronisation. Sixty pairs of eyes pinned you in the doorway like moths pinned to cork. But only one pair truly mattered.

Tom stood at the head of the room, chalk poised mid stroke against the blackboard. The word obscurus hung unfinished in his slanted, aristocratic script, elegant enough to be carved into marble.

He did not turn at once.

He finished the final curve of the ‘s’ with torturous slowness, the chalk clicking once against the slate like the hammer of a pistol being drawn back.

Only then did he look at you.

His eyes were winter midnight over the Black Lake, blacker than eyes should ever be, deeper than physics or magic ought to allow. They did not blink. They measured. They catalogued. They remembered.

“Miss,” he said.

The single word carried across the room like a blade drawn slowly from silk. Low. Smooth. Perfectly controlled. And yet every syllable felt wrapped around your throat.

“You appear to be under the impression that my time is negotiable.”

The room forgot how to breathe.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your satchel. “There was… a queue at the prefects’ bathroom, Riddle. I apologise.”

A lie so thin it was practically transparent. Everyone in the room knew the prefects’ bathroom queues were charmed to three minutes maximum. Everyone knew he himself used that bathroom. The lie hung between you like smoke.

He tilted his head the smallest fraction. The motion should have been nothing. Instead the whole room seemed to tilt with him, gravity bending toward the axis of his spine.

“Apologies,” he repeated, tasting the word as if it were something sour and foreign on his tongue. “How quaint.”

He set the chalk down. The sound was surgical,final.

“Five points from your house,” he said, voice so quiet the back row had to strain to hear, “for tardiness.” His gaze drifted slow, deliberate, down the length of your body and back up again in one economical flick that felt like it took ten full seconds. “Another five… for imagining the head boy would swallow such an obvious fabrication.”

Heat surged up your throat. Not embarrassment. Something fiercer. Hotter. Like standing with your back to a wall of Fiendfyre and feeling the first lick of flame against your spine.

You started toward your usual seat third row from the window, far enough to pretend you were taking notes while secretly tracing the way his shadow stretched long and sharp across the floorboards beneath those immaculate prefect robes.

He did not allow it.

“Front row,” he said.

Not louder. Not softer. Simply final. The sentence ended every other possibility in the room.

The walk felt like crossing a frozen lake while the ice groaned beneath your shoes.

Every step echoed. Your robe hem brushed desk edges. Someone, probably Avery, let out a stifled snort that died the instant Tom’s eyes flicked in that direction. Silence swallowed the sound whole.

You sat.

Too close.

The student desk was laughably small, your knees nearly brushed the dark wood of his teaching podium.

From here you could see details you had never been permitted to notice before, the faint silver scar that curved along the inside of his left wrist, old, clean, almost surgical in its precision.

The way the tendons in his forearm shifted beneath pale skin when he moved his hand.

The cedar scent sharpened now, undercut with ink, old parchment, and something darker, something that was simply him.

Professor Merrythought had been summoned to the Ministry for an emergency hearing on dark artefact legislation. Tom had been assigned to deliver today’s lecture.

Head boy teaching seventh years was rare, teaching with this kind of quiet, lethal command was unprecedented.

He resumed the lesson without another word about your lateness.

But he did not let you vanish into the background.

Every question he posed seemed to drift slowly, inevitably toward you.

Ten minutes in, while the rest of the class was still hunched over parchment scribbling notes on obscurial possession, his voice cut through the scratch of quills.

“Miss.”

Your name in his mouth felt like a spell you had not yet learned the counter for.

“Define the primary distinction between an obscurus and a boggart.”

You swallowed. Your tongue felt thick, useless.

“A boggart manifests fear,” you said. “It takes the shape of whatever the viewer fears most. An obscurus… is fear weaponised. It isn’t an illusion. It’s the child’s own suppressed magic turned inward and outward at once, consuming them until there’s nothing left to consume.”

He regarded you for three full heartbeats. Long enough that you felt your pulse in your fingertips.

“Correct,” he said at last.

The word should have felt like release. Instead it felt like permission to continue existing.

“And yet,” he continued, voice dropping so low it seemed to vibrate inside your ribs, “you hesitated.”

Another heartbeat.

“Why?”

The truth was too humiliating to speak aloud, Because the way you say my name makes every answer feel like it could be the wrong one. Because when you look at me I forget how sentences are supposed to end.

“I… didn’t want to be incorrect, Riddle.”

A ghost of something crossed his face, not quite a smile. Closer to the satisfaction of a predator watching prey finally stop running.

“How very cautious,” he murmured. So quietly the words were meant for you alone. “One might almost think you were afraid of me.”

Your pulse slammed against the thin skin of your throat.

He leaned forward. Just a fraction. Enough for the torchlight to catch the razor edge of his cheekbone and turn it silver. The prefect badge glinted like a drawn blade.

“Are you?” he asked.

The rest of the classroom might as well have dissolved into smoke.

You met his gaze. Held it. Something reckless and bright and stupid rose in your chest.

“Should I be?”

For one suspended second the mask fractured, just the smallest splinter. A flash of raw, unguarded hunger so visceral it stole the air from your lungs.

Then the perfect composure snapped back into place, cool, unreadable, untouchable.

He straightened.

“Ten points,” he announced to the room at large, voice once again calm, “to whoever can explain accurately, why an obscurial cannot be cured by conventional magical healing.”

Murmurs. Raised hands. The class surged back to life.

But his eyes never left yours.

The rest of the lesson passed in feverish fragments, his voice, low, measured, hypnotic, winding through definitions and counter curses, the scratch of quills, the occasional cough someone tried to smother. And beneath it all, the unbearable pressure of being seen. Not glared at. Not judged.

Seen.

Like prey that had momentarily interested the hunter. Like a locked room he had every intention of opening, drawer by drawer, secret by secret.

When the bell rang, no one moved until he gave the slightest inclination of his head, permission granted.

Students rose in near silence, robes rustling like dry leaves. They filed out quickly, heads down, as though afraid to draw his attention for even a second longer than necessary.

You stood too slowly gathering parchment with fingers that refused to stop trembling.

“Miss.”

One word.

You froze.

He had not moved from behind the podium. His hands were braced wide on the dark wood, long fingers spread, knuckles pale against the grain. The posture should have looked casual. It looked like a man holding himself back by willpower alone.

“Stay.”

Not a request. A command carved in velvet.

You stayed.

The door closed with a soft, final click. Silencing charms shimmered into place, pale silver ripples across the doorway, without him ever lifting his wand.

He rounded the podium.

Each step measured. Controlled. The soft tap of prefect polished shoes on stone might as well have been your heartbeat counting down.

He stopped two paces away.

Close enough you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes.

Close enough you could see the faint, steady pulse at the base of his throat beneath the crisp white collar.

“You think yourself average,” he said quietly.

It was not a question.

Your lips parted. No sound emerged.

He took one step closer.

“You are wrong.”

Another step.

His voice dropped until it was barely more than breath brushing your cheek.

“I see you.”

The air between your bodies felt charged electric, like the instant before lightning splits a storm dark sky.

He lifted a hand. Slowly. Deliberately. Until the tips of his fingers hovered a fraction of an inch from your jaw. Not touching.

Not yet.

But the heat of his skin radiated across that tiny distance and sank into you like a spell with no name.

Everywhere.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach sharp, sudden, humiliating in its intensity.

His gaze flicked to your mouth. One searing second.

Then back to your eyes.

“When I ask you a question,” he said, each word placed with surgical care, “I expect the truth. Not hesitation. Not excuses.” A pause long enough to feel violent. “Not lies.”

His fingers still had not touched you.

They didn’t need to.

The almost contact was worse than any touch could have been.

“Do you understand me?”

You nodded once. Small. Helpless.

“Words,” he corrected, voice softer now, almost tender and therefore infinitely more dangerous.

“Yes, Riddle.”

Something dark and bright flared behind his eyes.

“Good.”

He stepped back.

The sudden distance felt like being shoved.

“Tomorrow,” he said, turning toward his desk as though the last two minutes had not just rewritten the laws of gravity, “you will arrive early. You will sit in the front row. And when I call on you….” he glanced back over his shoulder, expression once more unreadable marble, “…..you will not hesitate.”

He picked up a stack of essays. Dismissive. Controlled. The head boy badge caught the light as he moved cool, authoritative, untouchable.

“You are dismissed.”

You walked to the door on legs that no longer felt like your own.

At the threshold you paused. Looked back.

He was already marking papers, quill moving in perfect, elegant strokes across parchment.

But his eyes flicked up.

Met yours.

Held.

For one endless heartbeat the room contained nothing and no one else.

Then he returned to his work.

You fled.

The corridor outside was shockingly cold against your flushed skin.

You pressed your back to the stone wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, and tried to remember how lungs were supposed to function.

You were already counting the hours until tomorrow.

And somewhere behind that closed door, Tom Riddle perfect, perilous head boy………was doing exactly the same thing.

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Part 2 in 48 hours 😚

Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Summary: In the quiet aftermath of intimacy, tears fall,not from pain, but from being loved too gently, too fully. And for the first time, Mattheo understands that her tears mean he’s finally done something right.

Probably the cutest thing I’ve ever written :’)

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The room is quiet except for the soft crackle of the dying fire and the uneven rhythm of your breathing.

Moonlight spills through the half open curtains, painting silver streaks across the tangled sheets and across Mattheo’s bare chest where you’re curled against him. Your skin is still warm, tingling, oversensitive in the aftermath of everything you just shared. His arm is slung possessively around your waist, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your lower back like he can’t bear to stop touching you even now.

You try to keep it together, you always try, but the second his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing so gently over your flushed skin, the first tear escapes. Then another. A quiet, hiccuping sob slips out before you can catch it, and suddenly you’re trembling again, face buried in the crook of his neck.

Mattheo goes still. His hand freezes mid stroke. “Again?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, still edged with the gravel of earlier. There’s worry there, sharp and immediate. “Sweetheart… talk to me. Did I…..fuck, did I hurt you? Was it too much? Tell me right now if….”

You shake your head frantically against his skin, arms tightening around his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll pull away if you let go. “No,” you whisper, voice thick and broken. “No, you didn’t hurt me. It’s not that. It’s just…”

He waits. He always waits for you, patient in a way that still surprises you every time, the same Mattheo Riddle who snarls at anyone else who dares look at him wrong. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other rubbing slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades. His heartbeat thumps steady and strong beneath your cheek, anchoring you even as the tears keep coming.

“You treat me so good,” you finally choke out, the words muffled into his chest. “Every single time. You look at me like I’m… like I matter. You touch me like you mean every second of it. And after, when you hold me like this… I just feel so…..” Your breath hitches again. “So loved. And it’s overwhelming, you’re so sweet to me and I don’t know how to hold it all.”

Silence stretches for a long heartbeat. Then you feel the exact moment it clicks for him, the way his whole body exhales, tension melting out of him like ice under sunlight. His fingers thread deeper into your hair, petting slowly, reverently.

“Merlin,” he breathes, half laugh, half wonder. “Happy tears?”

You nod into his chest, sniffling. The dampness spreads across his skin, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, he pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin so you’re completely enveloped in him.

“All this time…” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I thought, I don’t know. That it was the intensity. That maybe I was too rough or you were just… sensitive after. I kept thinking I’d fucked up somehow. That you were crying because I wasn’t careful enough with you.”

You lift your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, unguarded, shining with something raw and tender you rarely see outside these quiet moments. “No,” you whisper. “You make me cry because you’re perfect. Because you kiss my forehead like it’s the most important thing in the world. Because you hold me after like I might disappear if you let go. Because….. you love me. And I’m not used to feeling it this much.”

Mattheo stares at you, something cracking open behind his gaze. Then he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead, soft, lingering. “You’re killing me, you know that?” he says against your skin, voice rough with emotion. “In the best fucking way.”

He kisses the corner of your eye, catching a tear with his mouth. Then the other cheek. Slow. Deliberate. Like he’s tasting your happiness and wants to keep every drop.

“My sweet girl,” he whispers. “Crying because I love you. Fuck.” A quiet, disbelieving laugh rumbles through his chest. “If that’s what does it… then cry every damn time. I’ll wipe them. I’ll kiss them away. I’ll hold you until you stop shaking.”

The words land soft but heavy, and you feel your lip tremble. “You don’t think I’m stupid or needy or… or something?” you sniffle, voice wobbling worse now. Your fingers twist nervously in the sheets. “For crying like this every time? For falling apart just because you’re nice to me?”

Mattheo exhales long and slow, like he’s releasing something he’s carried for too long. He shifts, rolling you both until you’re cradled fully beneath him, his weight a comforting shield, not crushing, just there. Protective. His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing.

“Stupid?” he repeats, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “Baby… no. Fuck no.”

He tilts your chin up with gentle knuckles until you can’t hide anymore. His eyes are molten, stripped of every sharp edge he wears for the rest of the world.

“You think crying because someone treats you like you’re precious is stupid?” His thumb sweeps under your eye again, catching the newest tear. “That’s not stupid. That’s honest. That’s you letting yourself feel something real instead of swallowing it down. I’d rather have you sobbing in my arms every night than watch you pretend you’re fine when you’re not.”

He presses closer, breath warm against your lips. “And needy? If wanting to be loved makes you needy, then I’m the neediest bastard who ever lived. Because I need this….” His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “I need you like this. Clingy. Teary. Overwhelmed. All of it. I need to feel you shaking because I made you feel safe enough to fall apart. That’s not a flaw. That’s fucking beautiful.”

Fresh tears threaten, but this time you don’t fight them. You let them spill as you whisper, “I just… I don’t want you to get tired of it. Of me being like this.”

Mattheo lets out a rough, quiet laugh that vibrates into your chest. “Tired?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, then the salty path down your cheek. “Sweet girl, every time you cry like this it sinks in deeper. Makes me want to be better. Makes me want to hold you tighter. Makes me love you so hard it scares me sometimes.”

He pulls back just enough to really look at you, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw like he’s committing every inch to memory. “You’re allowed to feel too much. You’re allowed to cry because I kissed your forehead or told you you’re mine or just because the way I look at you hits different after everything we just did. None of that makes you stupid. It makes you mine. And I’m not going anywhere.”

His voice drops to something quieter, he tucks your head back under his chin and wraps both arms around you like nothing could pry you away.

“So keep crying, yeah? Every time. I’ll be right here wiping them, kissing them, holding you until you believe it’s not stupid at all. Until you believe you deserve every soft thing I give you.”

You melt completely then, the last knots of tension unraveling as his fingers card gently through your hair. The room feels smaller, warmer, safer. And for once the tears don’t feel like weakness, they feel like proof.

He really does love you. Exactly like this.

And somehow, knowing that only makes the happy tears come faster.

He doesn’t mind.

He just keeps holding you tighter.

_____________________________________

The first thing you notice when you wake is the sunlight, soft, golden, filtering through the curtains in lazy stripes across the bed.

It’s warmer than usual, or maybe that’s just because Mattheo’s chest is pressed to your back, one heavy arm draped over your waist, his hand splayed possessively across your stomach like he’s still claiming you even in sleep.

You shift slightly, testing, and immediately feel the pleasant ache between your thighs, the faint soreness that reminds you exactly how thoroughly he loved you last night.

Heat creeps up your neck at the memory, his mouth on your skin, his voice low and wrecked when he whispered your name like a prayer, the way he held you after until your tears slowed and your breathing evened out.

A quiet exhale against your nape. He’s awake.

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

He doesn’t move his arm. If anything, he pulls you closer, tucking your body flush against his until there’s no space left between you.

“Morning,” you whisper back, suddenly shy even after everything. Your fingers find his forearm, tracing the faint scars and freckles there like you’re mapping something sacred.

He hums, low and pleased, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. “You okay?” The question is soft, careful. “Not too sore?”

You shake your head, cheeks burning. “A little. But… good sore.”

A quiet laugh rumbles through his chest into your back. “Good sore,” he repeats, tasting the words. His hand slides up slowly, fingers skimming under the edge of the sheet to rest warm against your bare ribs. “You cried again last night.”

The reminder makes your stomach flip. You duck your face into the pillow. “Yeah.”

He presses a slow, open mouthed kiss to the slope of your shoulder. “Still think it’s stupid?”

You hesitate. The vulnerability from last night feels raw in daylight, easier to hide behind sarcasm or deflection. But his voice is so gentle, so steady, it pulls the truth out anyway.

“…A little,” you admit, small. “I mean, who cries because their boyfriend is too nice to them? It’s embarrassing.”

Mattheo shifts, rolling you gently until you’re on your back and he’s hovering above you, braced on his forearms. His dark curls are a mess, falling into his eyes, and the morning light catches the faint scar on his cheekbone.

He looks unfairly beautiful like this softened, unguarded, only for you.

He studies your face for a long moment, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek.

“Embarrassing,” he echoes, not mocking, just turning the word over. Then he leans down and kisses you slow, lazy, morning soft. No heat, just warmth. Just him.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours. “You know what’s actually embarrassing?” he murmurs.

“How fucking gone I am for you. How I lie awake sometimes wondering how the hell I got someone who looks at me like I hung the moon when I know exactly what kind of bastard I can be. How every time you cry like that…happy, overwhelmed, whatever it is….it makes me feel like maybe I’m not completely broken. Like maybe I can be soft for someone and it doesn’t make me weak.”

Your breath catches. You lift a hand to cup his jaw, thumb tracing the line of it. “You’re not broken.”

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Maybe not. Not when I’m with you.”

He kisses you again, briefer this time, then rolls to the side, pulling you with him until you’re tucked against his chest again, your leg thrown over his hip like it belongs there.

“Stay here,” he says quietly. “Just a little longer. No rushing. No getting up yet.”

You nod into the hollow of his throat, breathing him in, smoke, cedar, the faint salt of last night still clinging to his skin. “Okay.”

His fingers start tracing idle patterns on your back again, the same soothing circles from the night before. After a minute, he speaks, voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to stop calling it stupid if that’s what feels true right now. But I’m gonna keep proving it isn’t. Every time you cry, every time you think you’re too much, I’m gonna hold you tighter. Kiss you slower. Love you louder. Until one day you wake up and it doesn’t feel stupid anymore. It just feels like us.”

Your eyes sting again….damn it….but this time you don’t hide it. You let one tear slip free, let it soak into his skin, and he just tightens his arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“See?” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Still here. Still yours.”

You smile against his collarbone, small and watery and real.

“Still yours,” you echo.

And in the quiet morning light, with his heartbeat steady under your cheek and his hand warm on your back, the word “stupid” starts to feel a little further away.

Just a little.

Summary : On Valentine’s night, doubt fades as love speaks louder. A simple gift becomes everything, and under the stars, reassurance turns into forever.

Warnings : - Mild emotional vulnerability & self-doubt. - Soft, consensual, emotional smut (slow, worshipful, loving) - Happy tears & sweet reassurance - No dark themes, no toxicity

A Valentine’s Day gift from me to all my Draco girlies <3. My first time writing smut as well :’)

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The stress had been eating you alive for weeks.

Every time Draco casually dropped another “I’ve got something special planned for Valentine’s” in that velvet drawl of his, your stomach twisted tighter.

He never said it to brag, he genuinely wanted to spoil you, but every galleon he spent reminded you how different your worlds still were.

He gave you things you could never repay: the emerald pendant that matched his eyes, the charmed cloak that kept you warm even in the Scottish wind, the tiny music box that played the lullaby his mother used to sing him. And this year he’d been extra secretive, smirking every time you tried to pry, whispering “you’ll see on the fourteenth” against your lips before kissing you stupid.

Meanwhile you had… nothing.

No vault full of old Malfoy gold. No family heirlooms to regift. Just pocket money that disappeared on textbooks and Honeydukes runs.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You started working.

After classes, after dinner, after curfew when you could sneak out without Filch catching you, you were in the kitchens helping the house elves with prep, scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeons for extra sickles, even offering to copy notes for desperate fifth years at a Knut per page.

Every coin went into a small velvet pouch you hid under your mattress.

By February 13th you had just enough.

You found the ring in a tiny second hand shop in Hogsmeade, simple silver band, no big showy stones, but the metal felt warm, almost alive. The jeweler let you add three small, permanent charms yourself (with shaky hands and a lot of whispered spell work):

Protego Fidelius — protection that would only answer to his magical signature

• Amor Aeternum — love that would glow faintly whenever you were near him

• Semper Felix — a tiny luck charm, because you wanted him to have one good thing that had nothing to do with money or bloodline

You wrapped it in plain brown paper and tied it with green ribbon you’d nicked from Pansy’s stash.

It looked pathetic next to the velvet box Draco had been carrying around for days.

Valentine’s night he took you to the Astronomy Tower,

Blankets, charmed lanterns floating like fireflies, a picnic of all your favourite things (chocolate dipped strawberries, treacle tart, butterbeer warmed just right).

He looked unfairly beautiful in his black button down and silver cufflinks, hair falling into his eyes as he watched you like you were the only star worth seeing.

He went first.

The box was heavy black velvet. Inside lay a delicate bracelet, thin white gold chain, tiny diamonds and one perfect peridot the exact shade of your eyes. A small charm hung from it: a miniature dragon curled protectively around a heart.

“Turned it into a Portkey,” he said quietly. “If you’re ever in danger, just twist the dragon’s tail. It’ll bring you straight to me. Anywhere.”

Your throat closed.

“Draco…”

“I know you hate when I spend too much,” he added quickly, cheeks faintly pink. “But I needed you to have something that would keep you safe when I can’t be there.”

The small brown package looked ridiculous next to his velvet box, plain paper, slightly crumpled ribbon, but you pushed it toward him anyway, heart hammering so hard you thought he’d hear it.

“I….um.” Your voice cracked before you even started. “I know it’s not… I mean, I worked for it, and it’s probably stupid compared to everything you give me, and if you don’t like it that’s completely fine, I just wanted—”

Draco’s fingers pressed gently to your lips.

“Stop,” he said softly. No anger. Just fondness so deep it made your eyes sting.

He took the package like it was made of glass. Unwrapped it slowly, reverently, until the simple silver ring sat in his palm.

He stared.

You started babbling again.

“I know it’s plain, and I know you’re used to much nicer things, and the charms are probably nothing special, I just thought….”

He lifted his left hand.

Slid the ring onto his ring finger.

The moment it settled, the magic activated.

A soft silver glow pulsed once, warm, intimate, then faded into a gentle shimmer only the two of you could see. The Protego Fidelius hummed faintly against his skin. The Amor Aeternum made the band glow a little brighter when he looked at you. The Semper Felix added a tiny, almost playful sparkle.

Draco closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, they were glassy.

He looked at the ring.

Then at you.

Then back at the ring.

“You put Semper Felix on it,” he whispered, voice thick. “Luck. For me.”

You nodded , tears spilling now. “I wanted you to have something good that didn’t come from money or… or anything else. Just from me. Just… good things.”

He exhaled….. shaky, almost a laugh.

Then he lunged.

Cupped your face with both hands, thumbs brushing away your tears and kissed you like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into your mouth.

Slow.

Deep.

Aching with adoration.

When he pulled back he didn’t go far, just rested his forehead against yours, breathing you in like you were oxygen.

“You absolute, beautiful, ridiculous girl,” he murmured, voice cracking with emotion. “You think I care about the price? You think I want gold and diamonds when you spent weeks working yourself to the bone just to give me something that feels like home?”

He lifted his hand, kissed the ring softly, lips lingering on the metal.

“I’ve never owned anything this precious,” he whispered. “Not the manor. Not the vaults. Not anything. This….” He pressed the ring to his heart. “…..this is mine because you chose me. Every single day. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

You cupped his face, thumbs stroking the sharp line of his cheekbones.

“You deserve everything good,” you said quietly. “And I’m going to keep giving it to you. As long as you’ll let me.”

His eyes fluttered closed.

Then he kissed you again, slower, sweeter, full of wonder.

Hands sliding to your waist, pulling you gently into his lap until you were straddling him on the blanket.

He didn’t rush.

Just held you there, arms wrapped around your back, face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he was trying to memorize the moment.

“I love you,” he whispered against your skin. “More than anything. More than I know how to say.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, soft, silvery strands slipping between them.

“I love you too,” you breathed. “Always.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes shining, full of awe and something deeper, something reverent.

Then he kissed you again lingering, open mouthed, slow,hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the fabric of your dress.

You sighed into his mouth.

He smiled against your lips, soft, adoring.

“Let me show you,” he murmured. “Let me show you how much this ring means. How much you mean.”

His fingers found the tiny buttons at the back of your dress, undid them one by one with careful patience, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered.

When the fabric pooled around your waist he paused, just looked at you, eyes tracing every curve like he was seeing you for the first time.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. “So beautiful it hurts.”

He laid you back on the blanket gentle, worshipful and kissed down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. Took his time, lips and tongue tracing slow patterns, hands mapping your ribs, your waist, the soft skin of your hips.

When he reached the hem of your dress he looked up, eyes dark with love and want.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said softly.

You shook your head fingers in his hair.

“Never.”

He smiled…small, real, boyish and pushed the fabric higher.

Kissed the inside of your thigh, soft, reverent.

Then higher.

When his mouth found you, it was slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to worship you.

He licked and sucked and savored until you were trembling, back arched, fingers tangled in his hair, gasping his name like a prayer.

When you came it was quiet, shuddering, tears slipping down and he kissed his way back up your body, catching every drop with his lips.

He settled between your thighs, hard, aching but didn’t push inside yet.

Just rested his forehead against yours.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

Saw the ring glinting on his finger as he braced himself above you.

Saw the love endless, overwhelming in his eyes.

“I’m yours,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Forever. If you’ll have me.”

You pulled him down kissed him slow and deep.

“Always,” you breathed against his lips.

Only then did he slide into you, slow, careful, filling you inch by inch until you were joined completely.

You both sighed, long, trembling, like coming home.

He moved gently at first, deep, rolling thrusts that made you feel every inch of him, every heartbeat.

Every time he bottomed out he paused, ground against you, kissed you like he was trying to crawl inside your soul.

“I love you,” he whispered with every thrust. “I love you. I love you.”

You clung to him, nails in his back, legs wrapped around his waist, whispering it back like a vow.

When you came again it was together, soft, shattering, clinging, his face buried in your neck, your fingers tangled in his hair, the ring cool against your skin.

He didn’t pull out.

Just held you….wrapped around you…..breathing you in.

Under the falling snow and floating lanterns, with his ring warm on his finger and your heart beating against his, he pressed one last kiss to your temple.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, love,” he whispered.

You smiled sleepy, sated, loved beyond measure.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Draco.”

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I hope love like this finds you ❤️

Tom riddle x powerful reader

Summary: Bellatrix Lestrange thinks power is loud.She thinks it belongs to blood, legacy, and proximity to Tom Riddle.

just a small blurb because i couldn’t get this scene out of my head <3

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The room is already holding its breath.

Stone walls. Low light. Long table carved with old magic and older grudges. Death Eaters gathered like vultures, some lounging, some watching too closely, all of them waiting for something to go wrong.

You stand beside Tom.

Not behind him.

Not tucked away.

Beside.

Bellatrix’s eyes linger too long, sharp with the kind of resentment that feels almost wounded.

She tilts her head, lips curling into something sharp and pleased. “It’s interesting,” she says lightly, voice slicing through the murmurs, “how certain people keep finding their way into places they don’t belong.”

Silence.

You don’t move. Don’t flinch. You just breathe.

Tom’s jaw tightens. Barely. The kind of movement only someone who knows him would catch.

Bellatrix smiles wider. “I mean, this is a Death Eater meeting. Not a charity. Not a… social experiment.” Her eyes rake over you slowly. Deliberately. “I do wonder what qualifications are required now.”

A few snickers ripple through the room.

Tom’s hand flexes once at his side.

“That’s enough,” he says calmly.

Bellatrix laughs. “Oh, Tommy. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft.” She leans back, crossing one leg over the other. “I just find it amusing that she’s standing where I once did.”

You finally speak.

Your voice is steady. Almost bored.

“Did you want something, Bellatrix, or are you just reminiscing?”

That earns a reaction.

Her smile drops just a fraction. “Careful,” she warns. “You’re very bold for someone who’s here by grace alone.”

Tom turns fully now. His voice is ice. “She’s here because I want her here.”

Bellatrix scoffs. “Want is such a flimsy thing. Power lasts longer.”

You tilt your head. “You keep talking about power,” you say quietly. “Do you actually have any, or do you just borrow it from louder men?”

Oh.

That lands.

The room goes deadly still.

Bellatrix rises to her feet in one smooth, furious motion. “You insolent..”

“Sit down,” Tom snaps.

She doesn’t.

Her eyes blaze. “No. If she’s so deserving of your favor, let her prove it.” She gestures sharply. “A duel. Unless she’s afraid.”

Every eye turns to you.

Tom doesn’t look at Bellatrix again. He looks at you.

Low voice. Controlled. “You don’t have to”

You step forward.

Just one step.

“I accept,” you say.

Bellatrix laughs, triumphant. “Excellent.”

She raises her wand

She doesn’t even finish the incantation.

The spell slams toward you in a violent streak of red.

You don’t draw a wand.

You don’t even step back.

You lift your hand.

Two fingers. A flick of your wrist.

The spell stops.

Suspended midair. Quivering. Trapped like it hit glass.

The room inhales as one.

You turn your wrist, and send it back.

Hard.

Bellatrix barely has time to scream before it crashes into her, throwing her back against the stone wall. She hits with a sharp, humiliating thud and slides down, stunned.

Gasps. Shouts. Chairs scrape.

Before she can even scramble for her wand,

You snap your fingers.

Her wand rips itself off the floor and flies clean across the room

Straight into your waiting hand.

You look at it. Then at her.

Calm. Cold. Unimpressed.

“You dropped this,” you say, and toss it back at her feet.

Bellatrix is shaking.

Not from pain.

From fury. From humiliation.

From the realization that she never stood a chance.

Tom hasn’t moved.

But something in him has shifted.

His eyes are dark. Fixed on you. Like he’s seeing you for the first time and realizing he’s been standing next to a storm this whole time.

“Meeting adjourned,” he says quietly.

No one argues.

The room empties slowly, footsteps fading until there’s nothing left but the quiet and the space between you.

Tom doesn’t step closer right away.

He exhales first, like he’s been holding something in all evening.

Then he turns to you, and whatever expression he wore for the world is gone. No sharpness. No calculation. Just that soft, intent focus he only ever gives you.

“You were incredible,” he says. Not low. Not threatening. Just honest.

You shrug a little, like you don’t quite know what to do with praise from someone like him. “I was fine.”

He smiles at that. Small. Fond. The kind that never survives witnesses.

“You always do that,” he murmurs. “You diminish yourself. As if I didn’t see.”

He steps closer now, slow, giving you time to pull away if you want to. You don’t.

His hand finds your wrist, gentle, thumb brushing once, absent-minded. Familiar.

“I felt… proud,” he admits, quieter. The word seems to surprise even him. “And relieved. Knowing you’re safe. Knowing you’re you.”

You tilt your head. “You worry about me?”

He huffs softly, almost a laugh. “Constantly.”

His forehead rests against yours, just for a second. No rush. No claim. Just closeness.

“I don’t say it enough,” he whispers. “But I’m glad it’s you. Standing with me.”

And in that moment, there’s no darkness pressing in just warmth, steady and real, holding you both together.

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