#hogwartsfic

Mattheo and Theo have both set their sights on you igniting a rivalry.

I might make this a series.

No warnings.

The Slytherin common room was dimly lit, the emerald glow from the fireplace casting an eerie shimmer over the cold, stone walls. You sat in your usual spot by the window, attempting to focus on the Potions essay Snape had assigned, but the atmosphere in the room was far too tense for concentration.

Mattheo Riddle lounged across the couch, his dark eyes locked on you like a predator watching prey. He twirled his wand lazily, but his jaw was clenched, betraying the storm raging beneath his cool exterior. Across the room, Theodore Nott leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His icy blue eyes flicked between you and Mattheo, his expression unreadable yet charged with unspoken challenge.

The tension between them had been brewing for weeks, and you, the unwilling centerpiece of their silent war, were caught in the crossfire.

“Is the essay really that interesting, love?” Mattheo drawled, his voice dripping with a mixture of arrogance and irritation.

You glanced up, trying to ignore the way his lips curved into a smirk, though his eyes held a sharper edge. “Unlike some people, Mattheo, I prefer to pass my classes.”

Theo let out a soft scoff from across the room, drawing both your and Mattheo’s attention. “Maybe she just prefers spending her time with people who don’t treat everything like a game,” he said coolly, his tone a deliberate jab.

Mattheo sat up, his smirk vanishing. “Careful, Theo,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re treading on thin ice.”

Theo pushed off the wall, taking a step closer. He looked calm, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands twitched at his sides. “What are you going to do, Mattheo? Hex me because she’s tired of your theatrics?”

“Guys” you started, but your voice was drowned out by Mattheo’s sudden rise to his feet.

“You don’t get to talk about theatrics, Nott,” Mattheo snarled, his wand now pointed at Theo. “You’ve been circling her like a bloody vulture for months. I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Theo didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head, his lips curling into a taunting smile. “And what about you? Acting like you own her, like she’s some prize to be won. That’s not affection, Riddle; that’s obsession.”

Your heart pounded as you stood, placing yourself between them before things escalated further. “Enough! Both of you!”

Mattheo’s eyes flicked to you, softening slightly, but his grip on his wand didn’t loosen. Theo, however, stepped back, though his gaze lingered on you.

“You’re not some pawn in their game, Y/N,” Theo said quietly, his voice laced with an unexpected vulnerability. “You deserve someone who sees you, not someone who uses you to stroke their ego.”

Mattheo scoffed, but you caught the flash of hurt in his expression. “Don’t act like you’re some kind of hero, Theo. We all know you’re no better than me.”

The room fell silent, the air thick with tension and unsaid words. You looked between them, your heart aching at the pain they both carried, the pain they were now projecting onto you.

“I’m not a prize,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “And I won’t let either of you turn this into a competition. Figure out your own issues before dragging me into them.”

With that, you grabbed your essay and stormed out of the common room, leaving them both behind.

His hand raises, likehe’s going to reach out, to touch her like he’d used to—but Jyn’s not sure whatshe’d do to him if he did, and he doesn’t. His hand drops again. 

Will you and mattheo give in to the desire?

TW - smut, angst.

The dim light of the library’s enchanted candles cast flickering shadows on the ancient stone walls. You leaned against a bookshelf, your wand clenched tightly in your hand. Across from you stood Mattheo Riddle, his dark eyes glittering with a mix of challenge and amusement. You hated that look. You hated him.

And yet, here you were, locked in detention together. Again.

“I don’t need your help,” you snapped, gesturing to the tangle of cursed chains coiled on the floor between you.

Mattheo smirked, leaning lazily against a nearby table. “Clearly. You’ve been standing there for twenty minutes and haven’t done a thing. What’s the plan, genius? Stare at it until it feels guilty?”

“Shut up, Riddle,” you hissed, kneeling down to inspect the chains. You ignored the way his chuckle sent a shiver down your spine.

“Careful,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “Wouldn’t want you to get yourself killed before I have the chance to beat you in next week’s duel.”

“You wish,” you muttered, focusing on the runes etched into the metal. They pulsed faintly, whispering promises of mischief and pain. Typical Riddle handiwork. “What’s your deal anyway? Why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be off brooding in some dark corner?”

Mattheo didn’t answer immediately. When you glanced up, he was watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “Maybe I like the company,” he said softly, the mocking edge gone from his voice.

Your heart skipped, but you forced yourself to scoff. “Oh, please. You’d drive anyone else insane.”

“Not you, though,” he said, stepping closer. His tone was still light, but there was something searching in his gaze. “You keep up. You fight back.”

“Someone has to keep your ego in check,” you muttered, standing up to face him. He was too close now, the heat of his presence unsettling but not unwelcome.

“You think you know me, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “The big bad Riddle, always scheming, always dangerous.”

You swallowed hard. “Aren’t you?”

His lips quirked into a small, almost predatory smile. “Maybe. But I’m not the only one who likes to play with fire.”

Before you could respond, he stepped closer, invading your space entirely. His hand came up, brushing your wand aside and pressing it against the bookshelf behind you. The gesture was deliberate, taunting.

“What are you doing, Riddle?” you asked, your voice coming out steadier than you felt.

“Proving a point,” he said, his gaze dipping to your lips. His breath was warm against your cheek, and suddenly the cursed chains were the furthest thing from your mind.

You should have shoved him away. You should have said something sharp and biting to wipe that smug look off his face. Instead, you found yourself standing frozen, caught in the magnetic pull of his dark, stormy eyes.

“I hate you,” you whispered, though the words lacked conviction.

“Funny,” he murmured, his voice husky. “Because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was rough and desperate, a clash of teeth and tongues as he pressed you firmly against the bookshelf. You gasped into his mouth, your hands flying up to grip his shirt as his slid to your waist, pulling you closer. His lips were hot and insistent, stealing the breath from your lungs and setting your skin on fire.

“Mattheo,” you breathed when his mouth left yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His name felt foreign on your tongue, but the way he groaned in response sent a jolt of heat straight through you.

“Say that again,” he demanded, his voice rough as his teeth grazed your pulse point.

“Mattheo,” you whispered, this time softer, more vulnerable.

His hands tightened on your hips, dragging you against him as if he needed you closer than physically possible. You felt the hard press of him through his trousers, and a thrill shot through you at the realization of just how much he wanted you.

You tugged at his shirt, your fingers fumbling with the buttons. “This doesn’t mean I don’t still hate you,” you muttered, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his lips swollen and his eyes blazing. “Good,” he said, his voice low and full of promise. “Hate me all you want, Y/N. Just don’t stop.”

We have to worktogether,” he says, quiet and so bloody calm Jyn wants to scream. “We won’t beable to if you might curse me whenever I turn my back.”

That, she doesremember—Cassian’s glow of pride as he looked around the shithole that was hisfirst place, his alone; the way he’d grinned and ducked his head when she’dteased him for going off to work for the first time.

So one thing I’m not sure I mentioned, or if I did I didn’t say much about, but Zayn has a cat. She is a very picky sort of cat, who likes precisely two people in the world: Zayn and his mother. She tolerates Louis, because over the years they’ve come to a wary cease fire because they can both respect mutual destruction. She comes to the same sort of deal with Harry, eventually, a tacit understanding that Harry is not stealing her human but sometimes he does in fact want to take Zayn’s lap instead of her, and will pay in cream. She accepts this tribute as her due, along with the head scratches she deigns to allow. (Before that, though, it’s Harry seeing Zayn sitting in the library with a book on his lap and a cat cuddled in his arms, and his heart thumping painfully with the hope that flutters in it when Zayn looks up and smiles, hope that Louis does’t see this, that he might not get this smile. That this might be just for Harry).