#riddlemelater

Your Quidditch playing beater boyfriend was going to be the death of you. 

“But what’s wrong with this one?” You huffed, your shoulders sagging as you glanced down at the fabric that clung to your body like second skin, running a hand across the diamantes that shimmered like tiny stars sewn into the dress. “I’m running out of options, and you said you liked this one.” 

Mattheo’s grin widened and his eyes drifted down your body lazily, drinking in the strappy heels you’d paired with your outfit and the matching shimmery handbag. His gaze lifted slowly, sliding up your legs, gliding over the soft skin of your thighs that was on show, still silky and glimmering from your shower earlier. He hummed, his eyebrow lifting at the short hem that left little to the imagination, the tip of his tongue brushing across his bottom lip. 

“I never said I didn’t like it,” his voice rumbled, raspy and low like it often was when he was trying to turn you on. His arms flexed as he moved to push himself up, meeting your gaze with a salacious glint in his eyes. “Quite the opposite, actually. Your arse looks phenomenal…” 

“Mattheo.” You whined, arms slapping down at your sides, shooting him a withering stare to scold his lewdness. “You promised you’d help me choose.” 

“I am helping.” He insisted, his pointer finger twirling in a small circle, a silent instruction to give in to his insatiable nature. He watched you through half lidded eyes, making no effort to hide the way his hand skirted over his crotch, adjusting himself. “C’mon pretty girl, spin for me.” 

It was impossible to stay angry at him. The tight lipped scowl you’d been directing his way morphing into a wry, barely contained grin, your cheeks heating under his watchful gaze. It was too easy to give in to him when he looked at you like that. 

“Pretty please,” he coaxed, tilting his head at the smile that was beginning to bloom on your lips, knowing you couldn’t say no when he asked so nicely.

Your teeth bit at your bottom lip. Noticing the way his eyes trailed across your body, the smugness in his expression as he reached down to ease the growing strain beneath his pyjama bottoms— it was all too much. He’d adjusted himself while you contemplated giving in, sitting up and leaning back on his hands, his legs spread wide as he waited with bated breath. 

Slowly your hands unclenched, your heels tapping against the floor as you spun slowly for him, shy under his stare as you showed off every angle of your dress. A soft sigh left him as your back turned, and when you were finally facing him again, his eyes were blown wide and his lips had parted to let out another strangled groan.

“Salazar’s bloody ballsack,” he murmured, head dropping back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, collecting himself. “You’re not wearing that anywhere.” 

You scoffed, heels clunking loudly as you walked across the dormitory, pausing at the foot of the bed, right between his spread legs, and glared at him. “You’re my boyfriend, you know, not my father.” 

His head was level with your sternum in this position, and he had to crane his neck to look up at you. His eyes darkening as his hands planted against your thighs, slithering up to your hips, one curling at your waist, pulling you closer, and the other resting against your arse. 

“You… are not… wearing that… anywhere.” He repeated slowly, as though you might’ve misheard him the first time. “Especially not around the rest of the Quidditch team. Otherwise I might just have to permanently blind the lot of them.” 

Your brows lifted humorously, your hands coming to rest against his shoulder and tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. Your fingers gently twisted in his hair, gaze flitting over his broad shoulders and toned arms. That familiar sensation began to curl in your stomach as your thighs pressed together, long past caring about what dress you were going to wear later.

“Oh really?” you hummed, knowing full well he’d never really tell you that you couldn’t wear something. You tugged softly at his hair, pulling his head back just that bit farther and gazing into his eyes. 

“Mhm, really.” Mattheo nodded, his hands beginning to slide across your body, groping and stroking at you reverently. You smirked, watching the glee in his face as his hands explored. 

“Think of the team, Slytherin are close to winning the Cup,” he murmured in a deeply dramatic tone that had your eyes rolling, “What use is Malfoy in catching the snitch without any eyes?” 

His thumbs dug into the fabric as though testing how flimsy it was, still looking up at you with that glazed look in his eyes. 

“Exactly,” you grinned, cupping his cheek and stroking your thumb across his cheekbone, “Think of the team. They deserve a morale boost.” 

Mattheo, to his credit, had the sense to see you were only teasing, even as a look of pure horror broke out on his face. 

“They do not deserve that kind of privilege.” 

You began to giggle at the seriousness in his tone, the way he sat up straighter and seemed to snap out of his lustful teasing. The way his face softened at your laugh frustratingly endearing as he gazed up at you, like it was the best thing he’d heard all day. 

“Besides, you're my girlfriend, not theirs.” he muttered with a pout. 

You rolled your eyes fondly, fingers threading through his curls again as you laughed, this side of him was your favourite. The softer, vulnerable side he only showed when the two of you were alone. He practically purred under the attention, shameless as ever, tilting his head further into your touch.

“You know,” you mused lightly, “most boyfriends would just say their girlfriends look nice.”

“I did say you looked nice.”

“You said my arse looked phenomenal.”

“It does.” 

He maintained his straight face for all of two seconds, before you snorted in disbelief, and he grinned at the sound. Utterly pleased with himself for dragging such a sound from you. The two of you were quiet for a moment, and his eyes raked over you once more, slower this time. Appreciating every inch of your body. 

“Fine,” he sighed heavily. Relenting though he sounded bitter about it, “You can wear the dress tonight.” 

Your brows lifted in surprise, pausing your fingers that had begun to scratch at his scalp. 

“Wait, really?” Your face lit up, peering down at him with a puzzled look. 

“No.” he replied almost instantly, grip tightening around your hips, “Absolutely not. I just wanted to see your face.” 

He’d been desperate to try them for weeks, and had finally managed to get his hands on some. Off one of Theo’s guys, nonetheless, something to do with ancient ruins and library sessions.

But for Ten Galleons a piece? It was ridiculous. The kid was making a killing.

Luckily, Theo had managed to convince the Hufflepuff to do them a deal, a sort of mates rates favour. Two for the price of one. Mattheo had gotten four, and now, there were only three sitting in his drawer.

He stalked over to his best friend’s bed first, yanking back the curtains suspiciously. It wasn’t beyond Theo to bump one and claim it as payment for brokering the deal.

But Theo’s bed was untouched—messy, but no sign of the stolen chocolate frog. Theo was evidently off with his latest fling of the month, explaining the empty bed. And so he huffed, eyes narrowing as he tugged open Theo’s top drawer.

Condoms. Lube. And a battered, rather questionable, copy of Witch Weekly— featuring an old photo of Celestina Warbeck on the cover, all winks and glittering robes. Mattheo snorted. The witch was old enough to be his grandmother nowadays, even if she was featured on the pages in all her youthful glory.

He made a mental note to bring that up next time Theo pissed him off. But aside from uncovering his late night reading material, the missing frog was still that. Missing.

Frowning, Mattheo lazily shut the drawer, glancing back towards his own bed deep in thought. No one else had known about them, only Theo and the Hufflepuff student. And he doubted Berkshire or Zabini had been rifling through his sock drawer as of late.

Unless… the crease in Mattheo’s eyebrows softened, lips parting into a sly grin.

“Of course,” he muttered offhandedly to himself, head shaking in disbelief. How could he have been so stupid.

What Mattheo hadn’t considered— the culprit who was hiding in plain sight— was you. His latest obsession over the past few weeks. Fuck buddies, friends with benefits, whatever you want to call it. You were the only other person who could’ve swiped it from his drawer. The only girl he’d trusted enough to let within ten feet of his bed.

He chuckled to himself as he pieced it together, imagining you rummaging through his drawers last night while he showered.

The post-fuck glow on your cheeks as you raked through his belongings, only to strike gold in the process. He shook his head, adjusting his shirt collar as he descended the stairs towards the Slytherin Common Room.

Mattheo’s suspicions were soon confirmed as he reached the bottom of the steps, scanning the empty Common Room and spotting you stretched out on a sofa, staring through the thick panes of glass and out into the expanse of the Black Lake.

Judging from the look in your eyes, he was certain he’d found the culprit of the stolen edibles, without even having to accuse you. The telltale flush in your cheeks, the glazed over, glassy eyes, and that red-rim that ran the length of your waterline.

“Oi, sticky fingers!” He called in that smug drawl you heard too often. Your head turned towards his voice, just a fraction slower than usual. “Enjoying my chocolate frog, are you?”

Shamelessly, your gaze flickered to the wrapper beside you, then flashed him a cheeky smirk. You’d always planned on getting caught, and you were definitely going to enjoy it.

“Could’ve been stronger,” you shrugged, arms reaching above your head to stretch, then twisting to look at him with one of your butter-wouldn’t-melt expressions. “But I’m not complaining.”

You stretched with a slow, exaggerated yawn, glancing back at him with hooded eyes. “Consider it payment…” you hummed coolly, “For services rendered.”

Mattheo’s smirk stretched, sharp as a blade, eyes glinting as he sauntered closer.

“Services rendered, huh?” he echoed, hooking his fingers under your calf and lifting your legs with a casual flick. “Funny. Don’t remember you settling that tab last night.”

He dropped onto the sofa, your legs draped across his lap like they belonged there. You smiled dreamily, adjusting in your seat and letting your mind wander back to the night before fondly.

“Or, for that matter, doing anything to make you worthy of my secret stash.” He added, fingers clasping in his lap.

“But don’t worry, darling.” His thumb reached out and traced a slow, deliberate circle on your ankle. “I’ll be sure to collect.”

Mattheo stilled his movements before letting out a snort, “And you owe me for that, by the way. Ten Galleons.” He nodded towards the wrapper. He might as well make some of his money back.

“Yeah?” you asked in a sultry whisper, head tilted teasingly, “Whatever happened to finders keepers?” You prodded his side, curling into his warmth.

In your haze, his body heat called to you, dragging you closer without a single word needing said. Mattheo rolled his eyes, slinging his arm over the back of the couch as you shimmied closer.

“Well, aren’t you just full of surprises.” He grinned, gazing curiously toward the wrapper. His hand slipped from the back of the couch to your shoulder, body twisted to face you.

“Your card’s marked now, love,” he teased in a low whisper.

“Oh, no.” you retorted. Slow and languid. Voice dropping to match his low, taunting tone. You had to stop yourself from giggling at his teasing, the edible settling in and making you giddy.

“Go on, rub it in,” He mused, fingers tracing feather-light circles on your skin, “Is it good?”

Your skin prickled under his touch, your face nuzzling into his shoulder as a content sigh escaped you.

“S’good,” you murmured, head lolling to look up at him was a soft grin, “Can definitely feel it, feels nice.”

Mattheo’s brow arched, a cocky smirk tugging at his mouth.

"So what you're saying is... you're still fully aware of your actions?" His fingers began to trail down your shoulder, brushing slowly down your hip, then smoothing across your thigh.

You hummed, a sly grin widening as you leaned into him, “Why so many questions, Riddle?”

His smirk deepened as he shifted, pulling you closer, settling you into his lap like second nature. Like that was where you belonged.

"Oh, no reason.” His hand crept higher up your thigh, maddeningly slow. “Just curious.”

You glanced at him sceptically, knowing that tone all too well. His finger stopped just short of the hem of your skirt, circling the skin slowly.

His breath was hot against your ear as he leaned forward, "Can I test something real quick, sweetheart?"

You thought for a moment, a loose smirk tugging at your mouth. Your hands slid up his chest, arms looping around his neck.

“Depends.”

Mattheo’s breath hitched as your fingers toyed with the fabric of his shirt, his gaze darkening, tracking every slow movement. Your answer only further encouraged him, the tension thickening with every second .

“I promise you’ll like it,” he added, fingers returning to trace lazy patterns on the inside of your thigh, just above the knee.

“Just stay still,” he said, pausing his movements long enough to grab your attention, “Think you can do that for me, yeah?”

You hummed noncommittally, almost like instinct, body slipping into autopilot as the sensation of his touch soothed you. The warmth radiating from him lured you in, hazy and lethargic. He only smiled as you settled further into his lap, letting his hands guide you closer till his chest was pressed flush against your back.

Your head tipped back against his shoulder gently, staring up at him with an intrigued gaze. You could certainly feel the telltale signs that you were stoned, eyelids a little heavier, that fuzzy feeling that lingered on the edges of each brush of his fingers.

He knew exactly how his touch affected you, and a self-satisfied smile spread across his lips.

“Good girl,” he spoke, words dripping with that teasing tone he could pull off so well. A shiver crept up your spine at the sound of his voice, both gravelly and affectionate, and murmured into the shell of your ear.

Slowly, he leaned closer, lips just barely brushing your neck, his free hand slid up and pushed your hair to the side softly. Tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness he rarely showed.

Your eyes flickered up to his, full of curiosity, as his other hand wandered lazily across the inside of your thigh, fingers occasionally reaching high enough to make your breath hitch, but never quite touching where you wanted.

“Mattheo…” you whispered hesitantly, every nerve ending focusing on the pads of his fingers that brushed carefully along the tender skin. You were stoned enough now that you’d tuned into every little touch, brains turned to mush at the first graze of his calloused hands.

“Shh. Stay still, remember?” Mattheo chastised, the smirk still plastered across his face.

He leaned closer, and nipped gently at your neck, teeth grazing across the skin, just sharp enough that you gasped, his name on the tip of your tongue. Mattheo grinned, free hand clapping over your mouth, the warmth of his palm muffling the small sound you hadn’t meant to let slip.

“You can be quiet for me, can’t you, love?” He murmured, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine.

His hand was still pressed against your mouth, waiting for an answer. His eyes had darkened, closer to black than the typical walnut brown you were used to. Like something primal, something he couldn’t quite control, had grasped ahold of him.

Your own widened, still heavy and tired from the weed, but your gaze stayed locked on him. Frozen still for fear of disappointing him, and ignoring the urge to cant your hips with what little restraint you had left.

“There you go,” he murmured encouragingly, removing his hand with a lingering sweep down your side. You couldn’t hold back from twitching as he skimmed across your hip. His fingers dipped beneath your skirt again, this time brushing over your underwear in a feather-light pass that had you tensing, breath caught.

“Such a clever thing, aren’t you?” His words hummed against your ear. Slow, condescending, addictive.

Your thighs flexed instinctively but his hand remained infuriatingly light, taunting. You chewed your bottom lip, head still tilted back against his shoulder in a mix of bliss and frustration. His free hand crept up your body, his thumb flicking gently, and freed your bottom lip with a low chuckle.

“Don’t bite too hard, love. Wouldn’t want to bruise that pretty mouth.”

His thumb swiped over the curve of your lips, smirking at your open mouth. The flush in your cheeks deepened, eyes drooping and not caring how wrecked you looked. His fingers resumed their delicate strokes at the apex of your thighs, every touch just shy of enough to make you feel real pleasure.

“How high are you, sweetheart?” He asked again, voice low, velvety, almost concerned— if not for the wicked glint in his eyes. You exhaled, glancing from his hand working beneath your skirt back to his expectant stare.

“Enough,” you admitted, unable to lie to him, the words barely above a breath, “Still conscious enough to know you’re teasing me.”

His smirk sharpened. “Good,” Mattheo muttered, fingers pressing the tiniest bit firmer against the soaked patch of your underwear, “I wouldn’t want you missing any of this.”

Your breath hitched, hips shifting instinctively, lifting up and trying to grind against his palm. Mattheo tutted, pulling his fingers back with a mocking sigh.

At the loss of contact you whimpered, a wrecked plea falling from your mouth, “Mattheo please… touch me, want—”

The words faltered, catching in your throat, because you didn’t know what exactly you were begging for— even as your fingers wrapped around his wrist, chipping away at his restraint with your delicate touch.

“Please… want to cum.” you forced out in a strained voice.

Mattheo’s grin sharpened immediately, slow and wolfish, eyes dark as he drank in every inch of your slow unraveling. The way you dissolved into him without question, fingers tangling in his shirt, neck exposed and eyes squeezed shut in frustration. It drove him crazy.

He chuckled, a low, rasping sound that vibrated through his chest. “Oh, sweetheart. Don’t worry, you’ll cum. That’s not the problem.”

His fingers pressed more deliberately now, tracing the seam of your underwear, a fraction more pressure. Enough to make you press your thighs together, trapping his fingers between them. He tsked, ignoring your evident frustration, and forced your legs to part roughly.

“The problem, darling, is me deciding when you deserve to cum.”

You bit back a whimper, nuzzling further into his neck, the soft haze from the chocolate frog making his touches feel heavier, like every brush of his fingers was sinking deeper into your skin. Your skin prickled from his touch, the warmth of his palm smoothing across your thigh occasionally, the pads of his fingers dipping close— but never close enough.

Mattheo shifted beneath you, the movement slow and indulgent, as if he had all the time in the world. His palm flattened against your thigh, sliding under your skirt with a lazy purpose, until his fingers found your core through the thin fabric.

“See,” he breathed, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “This is what happens when you steal from me. You get all needy and worked up, and I…” his fingers pressed down on your clit, moving in a tight circle. “I, sweetheart, get to decide when you can cum. Understand?”

Your hips pushed against his hand, a soft whine muffled against his shoulder. The sensation of his fingers dulled at the edges, but it made every shift of his palm feel molten. Like you needed his touch, desperately.

“You’re not even trying to stay still, are you?” he smirked, half amused, half admiring, his tone dripping with mock pity. “Knew you’d be a needy little thing, so needy for me when you’re stoned.”

His fingers finally slipped beneath your underwear, his touches lazy, confident. Two fingers parting you in a slow, torturous drag that had your breath catching sharply. But even then, he didn’t rush. He traced soft circles, the cruelest pressure, soaking in every twitch and breath you gave him.

“Better,” he murmured approvingly, feeling the way you melted into him, fighting the urge to squirm, the way your breath hitched at every excruciating pass of his fingers. “You’re so easy for me. Makes a change, love. Must be the frog.”

If his voice was sordid, then his grin was filthy.

You hummed, barely holding on, too lost in the haze to respond. Your fingers fisted the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself as his pace remained unhurried, maddeningly soft. He was testing you, seeing how far he could push without giving you relief.

Mattheo’s lips pressed against your temple, lingering there as his fingers dipped slightly, the rhythm staying steady, but the pressure deepening just enough to make your thighs quake. Your lips parted breathlessly as he pushed in, finding that soft spot inside that made you moan brokenly.

“Look at you, you’re a mess.” he cooed against your skin, you could feel the grin on his face. The mocking, taunting way his laughter came out in a lazy chuckle, right by the shell of your ear. “And you said it wasn’t strong enough.”

His thumb shifted, brushing a deliberate, feather-light stroke over your clit that had your entire body tensing, a soft gasp breaking free before you could stop it. His arm around your waist gripped tighter, pinning you to him as though he could feel you unraveling.

“Shh, You’re supposed to be quiet, remember?” he teased, though his lips against your cheek were infuriatingly tender. As if he weren’t currently fucking his fingers into your cunt slow and tauntingly. “You’re not going to make me cover that pretty mouth again, are you?”

You whimpered, shaking your head as his fingers curled inside you and dragged against your walls deliciously. He rewarded your answer with another pass of his thumb, firmer this time, slower, dragging the sensation out until your hips were stuttering against him.

“That’s it,” he praised, voice low, the smug satisfaction in his tone making your head spin. “Good girl.”

He didn’t stop or speed up, but the way his fingers worked you was calculated, like he wanted you to hang on the edge—floating in that foggy, stoned bliss where everything felt slower, heavier, and yet so sharp when he touched you just right.

“Now,” he whispered, lips brushing the corner of your mouth, “Tell me again how you thought you could steal from me and get away with it.”

Your breath was shaky, words barely forming, but your grin—lazy, cocky, matching his—spread across your lips anyway.

“M’getting what I want, though,” you whispered, a shaky little laugh catching in your throat. “You spoiling me. Can’t even stop yourself, can you?”

Mattheo scoffed and pressed another kiss to your temple. Fingers still frustratingly dragging through your slick, coating your thighs in it as he hummed, a dangerous low sound that had you twitching with anticipation. His grin sharpened against your temple, the faintest flicker of amusement laced with something darker. His fingers stilled, cruelly motionless beneath your skirt.

“Oh, you think you’re clever now, do you?” he murmured, voice molten silk, his lips brushing feather-light along your hairline. “I should leave you like this, then. All worked up, dripping for me like a desperate little slut. That sound good?”

Your breath stuttered, hips shifting instinctively, but his grip at your waist pinned you down, firm and unrelenting.

“Don’t.” His voice dropped an octave, a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. “I’m in charge, sweetheart.” His voice held that teasing lilt to it, all saccharine and mocking, leaving you squirming and whining for him.

Mattheo’s fingers hovered, cruelly still, the tension in his knuckles betraying just how easy it would be for him to give you exactly what you wanted. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

“You know what’s missing, don’t you?” he murmured, lips brushing your temple, maddeningly patient. “You’ve got a filthy mouth when you’re teasing, but now? Suddenly quiet.”

His fingers slid just so, enough to make you twitch, a soft gasp breaking free—but the touch was fleeting. Barely a taste.

“Stole from me after I fucked you so good. Lied to my face. And now you want me to make you cum?” he hummed, mock-pondering. “No, no, sweetheart. I think there’s something you owe me first.”

You squirmed against him, frustration simmering as his fingers stayed poised, ready to ruin you but choosing restraint. His smirk was infuriating.

“Go on,” he drawled, his grip tightening at your waist. “Be a good girl and apologise, then I’ll let you cum.”

It was a demand disguised as a request, his tone velvety soft, but there was no mistaking the weight behind it. Your throat felt dry as you swallowed, your pride prickling, but his fingers flexed—a silent warning—and you knew he’d keep you dangling in this haze until you gave him what he wanted.

“Sorry…” you murmured, barely audible, but it wasn’t enough. He stilled completely, waiting.

“Louder, love,” Mattheo said, voice dipping low, lips grazing your ear, “and try again. Like you mean it, this time.”

The flush burned your cheeks, but you forced the words, breathless and trembling, Too worked up, too close to the edge that you couldn’t help but beg.

“M’sorry I stole from you, Matty.” you whined, wriggling. “Please, I’m sorry.”

A soft, satisfied chuckle rumbled through his chest. “That’s my girl.”

His fingers slipped through your folds in an instant, parting you in a fluid, unhurried stroke that had your head snapping back with a gasp. His thumb found your clit with surgical precision, circling slowly, keeping you on edge but giving just enough to flood your senses.

“See? Apologies aren’t so hard,” he murmured, his pace now deliberate, steady, driving you closer with every calculated motion. “But steal from me again, love, and I’ll make you say it with your mouth full next time.”

The climax built sharp and fast, your muscles tensing, breath hitching as he pushed you right to the brink. You head lolled back against his shoulders, incoherent moans slipping from your lips with each desperate gasp.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” He praised, fingers pumping faster as he chased your orgasm. Your hips snapping forward to meet each thrust eagerly. “Fuck, you’re soaked—” He groaned into your ear, cursing faintly under his breath. “That’s it baby, cum for me.”

His hold was firm, his body heat sinking into yours as the wave crashed, pulling you under in a shuddering, breathless release. The moan that tore from your throat was filthy, loud and involuntary. Which only spurred him on more, fingers pumping and curling against the soft spot that made you squeal.

Had you not been so caught up in the blinding pleasure of your orgasm, you would’ve been embarrassed. Mattheo’s free hand fumbled, grasping your throat and squeezing for just a second before finally clasping over your mouth, muffling the sound.

“Shh, shh, shh, sweetheart.” He cooed, “You don’t want everyone hearing how good I’m making you feel, do you?”

Mattheo’s fingers kept pumping, working you through your orgasm and well into overstimulation. Your hips shook, moans turning into whimpers and finally he let up. Satisfied with the way you trembled, soft noises muffled into his palm, endless babbling of praise and thank you’s, and anything else you could force out.

Wrecked, you nuzzled into his throat, shamelessly seeking his warmth. He let you stay there, cradling you lazily against him as though you weighed nothing. His palm rested on the small of your back, while the other dragged through your hair, scratching gently at your scalp.

“Oh, and next time you’re tempted by my stash,” he murmured, voice dripping with lazy amusement, “you’ll remember this frog cost you more than ten Galleons.”

You hummed in noncommittal agreement, eyelids drooping, body heavy and content in his hold. His fingers kept stroking idly at your thigh, the slow rhythm soothing now, encouraging your eyes to flutter shut in slow blinks, fighting the urge to pass out.

“That frog was worth every Knut,” you muttered, smug even as you drifted away, staring out at the Black Lake. His grin remained. Sharp. Possessive.

“Then, next time,” he added, kissing the shell of your ear, “I’ll make sure you won’t be able to walk back to your dorm at all, love. Understood?”

You smiled lazily, your fingers gave the faintest tug on his collar, a silent challenge he’d always recognise. Mattheo’s chuckle was low, amused, and dangerous. He kissed your temple again, this time softer, almost fond.

“You’ll learn, eventually.”

He knew how you liked it— he knew the moment you were about to shatter just by the way you said his name. Merlin, he knew just about everything about fucking you, like it was his personal mission to know exactly what you liked and disliked. As long as it made you feel good, Mattheo was more than willing to learn.

Or, so he thought. Foolishly.

When you asked one day— all shy glances and mumbled words as he pressed kisses to the crook of your neck— if you could try something new, Mattheo was all ears. That was, until you suggested that for once you do all the work, treat him for a change. It was then he crumbled. Cheeks flushed with a faint but noticeable blush, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed shyly.

It went on like this for over a week. He’d have you caged in his arms, trapped underneath him, cock brushing against your tight walls. A sinful drag that made him grunt against your lips in sheer appreciation, and all of a sudden, you’d break the kiss. Eyes peering up at him all innocent and curious, like he wasn’t still thrusting in and out of you, deliriously chasing the high he was ‘oh so close’ to reaching.

“Matty…” you’d purr, in that voice that almost-always made him bend to your will. That syrupy tone enticed him like a siren’s call, and the moment he heard it, he knew exactly what you were asking for. What you’d been subtly hinting at ever since the first time you’d asked and he’d shrugged it off.

Control.

He’d fuck into you faster— deeper— covertly try pressing his lips against your throat, biting down in all the spots he knew you loved. He tried his very best to render you unable to even think about asking again, but it would never work.

“I just want to try it…” you’d urge, bringing it up moments after he finally came. A small pout on your lips, as he gasped beside you, flat on his back and attempting to catch his breath from over-exertion. “Feel bad you’re doing all the work.” You slid closer to him, propping your head up on your hand.

Mattheo only huffed and rolled onto his side, pressing a feather-light kiss to your temple, muttering the same thing he always said when you asked, “Just let me worry about making you feel good, yeah?”

After the third variation of that conversation— mid thrust, usually— Mattheo was starting to crack. Running out of ways to turn you down, and ways to distract you with his cock; or mouth, or fingers. Which meant he began to think about your request, albeit hesitantly, grappling with whatever strange part of him couldn’t relent.

It hadn’t exactly driven a wedge between the two of you, but he was growing more and more defensive each day. New excuses slipping from his lips each time you gave him that butter-wouldn’t-melt look.

“I just don’t want my sweet girl lifting a finger, not when I can make you feel so good.” He’d purr into the soft skin of your thighs, thumb tracing your clit in tight circles, whilst his tongue returned to lap at your slit.

“But you look so good underneath me, love,” he’d reason with a smirk, cock pistoning in and out of you, slow and deep. Drawing the prettiest of moans from your parted lips.

Then, “Stop asking, yeah? You’ll take what I give you and you’ll shut that pretty little mouth.” He’d growl, bucking into you rapidly, one hand pressed across your mouth to silence your whines.

And yet, when you finally stopped bringing it up, Mattheo found he didn’t feel the relief he’d expected.

If anything, it left him with a gnawing sort of feeling— the kind that lingered long after he’d made you cum, and even longer after your breathing evened out beside him. He’d lie there in the dark, still naked beside you, your skin warm and damp against his, and feel unfulfilled. Like he’d missed something, though he couldn’t pinpoint what.

It got worse in the quiet moments. When you drifted off, lashes resting on flushed cheeks, his hands itched to touch you again. Not to chase his own release, but to chase that look. The one he knew you’d have if he ever gave in. That look of pure, soft, aching, need.

He told himself it was stupid. That neither of you needed it, sex was perfect the way he knew how. You nestled into the pillows, and him doing all the hard work. It was safe— comforting, almost— the ease of that routine settling something in him he was yet to face. And yet, each morning he woke up lately, your innocent request was already waiting for him, unmoving and stubborn as ever.

Mattheo felt restless, wand twisting around his fingers, a soft tap each time the wood scuffed the table. Completely oblivious to the Herbology Essay that lay untouched in front of him, he had bigger problems than naming properties of bubotubor pus— like the fact that, for the first time in his life, his sex life was subpar.

And even worse? He’d come to realise it was entirely his fault.

Theo sat across from him, kicked back in his chair like he owned the place, ankles crossed on top of the table. His fingers idly turned the page of his textbook, attention only half there— the very picture of smug detachment.

Mattheo was driving himself up the wall just thinking about it, the way you’d looked so downtrodden each time he’d shut down your simple ask of him. And it began to eat away at him, at all hours. But especially, when he was meant to be focusing on other things, like making sure his grades didn’t slip enough that he got benched for the rest of the Quidditch season.

The more he thought about it, the more the problem weighed on him— and right now, sitting in the library on Monday night desperately trying to get through his homework, Mattheo wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow him up. Just to be done with it altogether.

It’s not like he didn’t trust you, or that he didn’t want you on top. Rather the opposite, if he was completely honest. That other side to him, the feral and hedonistic one, reared its head at the mere mention of you. His pulse thrummed the moment he caught even a whiff of your sweet perfume. He just… wasn’t sure. It was vulnerability, he supposed, and that was one thing Mattheo wasn’t good at.

“You’ve shagged plenty of girls, Theo.” Mattheo spoke up eventually, breaking the silence with more of an observation than a question.

It was no secret that Theo had a reputation amongst the ladies of Hogwarts. The kind built on easy smirks and playful flirting, and always ended in the lingering smell of cologne and sex that had them coming back for more. He was the kind of guy who could convince you the sky was green and the grass was blue, and if he ever felt anything for them, he never made it clear. That was just part of the allure, ‘The Nott Charm’ as Theo often called it in jest.

Theo only hummed, half interested and half judgmental. Turning the page of his book with intrigue that had to be put on, if only to urge Mattheo to offer up something better— or shut up altogether.

Mattheo cleared his throat when he realised his mistake, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms in bemusement. “I just mean— you know what you’re doing, right?”

Theo’s gaze slid up slowly, deliberate, as if he were deciding whether Mattheo was worth looking at just yet. One eyebrow rose in lazy curiosity, the corners of his mouth curling like he’d been expecting this.

“Trouble in paradise, amico?” His smirk was pure provocation. “Young love’s first fight?”

Mattheo scoffed, throwing himself back in his seat with an exasperated groan. Theo only stuck out his tongue.

“Like you’d know a thing about love. Bloody new girl every week! I don’t know how you keep up, Casanova.” Mattheo bit, mirroring Theo’s childish gesture stubbornly.

“Oh?” Theo leaned forward just slightly, elbows on the table, smirk sharpening as all playful teasing slid from his face. “Then why bother asking me at all?”

Theo’s head tilted tauntingly. As if daring him, with that look like he already knew everything Mattheo wanted to confess.

Mattheo hesitated, glancing around at the nearby students — all too buried in their own work to notice. A flicker of heat threatened to rise in his cheeks at the thought of discussing you like this, with Theo of all people.

“It’s… ah, forget it,” Mattheo muttered finally, shaking his head and glancing back down at his essay.

But Theo was like a dog with a bone.

“Don’t tell me…” Theo hummed, eyebrows creasing as he pretended to think, “She’s terrible in bed?” Theo drawled, probably only saying it to rile him up.

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, eyes darkening in warning. “Careful with your next words, Nott.” He gritted out, “She’s my girlfriend.”

Theo raised his hands in mock surrender, grin firmly in place — the same, sly grin he gave to every girl he’d ever left wanting more. Mattheo should’ve known this was hopeless, that Theo was the least likely of his friends to understand.

“Alright, alright. Message received.” Theo mused, letting his hands drop down to the table, leaning forward with that same lazy curiosity. “Spit it out then. What’s bothering you?”

Mattheo exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. “It’s just—” He broke off, staring at the grain in the tabletop as though it might help him find the words. “Have you ever, uh…” He gave an awkward head tilt, like that would somehow explain it.

Theo stared at him flatly.

“That’s not even remotely a question.” Theo laughed coolly, studying the exasperated look on Mattheo’s face with amusement.

“You know,” Mattheo tried again, shifting in his seat, “let her…?”

Another vague nod.

The smirk on Theo’s face was immediate, sly and crass. Spreading across his lips like all his Christmas’ had come at once.

“Oh. You’re into that, are you?” His voice dripped with amusement, one brow raising higher. “Didn’t peg you as that kind of guy, Riddle.”

“What— No! Salazar Theo, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo scowled, colour creeping into his cheeks at the insinuation.

Theo only grinned wider, shrugging noncommittally, “You’re into what you’re into mate, I don’t know what shit you like.”

“I just mean…” Mattheo huffed, leaning closer as his voice dropped to a whisper, “letting her take control?”

His eyes scanned once more to make sure no nosey Ravenclaws had overhead him. Part of him in disbelief that he was even saying this out loud.

Theo blinked once. Twice, like he couldn’t quite believe what Mattheo was saying. Then snorted dryly, “Well, duh?”

Mattheo’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, duh?”

“I mean,” Theo said as he leaned closer— tone utterly casual, too casual for what they were discussing really. “Free pussy in your lap and she does all the work? Come on man.” He groaned, eyes rolling like it was a wet dream. “Hang on— are you seriously telling me you’ve never let her ride you?”

Mattheo grimaced, looking away sheepishly. “Not… exactly.” He answered, suspiciously evasive in his reply.

Theo sat back, shaking his head slowly, like he’d just been informed of an unforgivable crime against wizardkind. “Salazar save me, Riddle. That girl is a waste on you.” Theo stifled a groan.

“It’s not that simple,” Mattheo muttered, glaring at his untouched essay. Theo was all too comfortable with this conversation, and Mattheo needed out of it, quickly. “You wouldn’t understand, Nott.” he snapped quietly, practically hissing the words across the table.

“Mate… it is.” Theo said, voice low and incredulous, “It’s exactly that simple. You sit there, you shut up, and you let her ruin you. Merlin’s bollocks, have some dignity man!”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but the heat in his ears gave him away instantly.

“Alright, alright. I get the picture, Nott, now shut it, please.”

Theo must’ve caught it, of course he did. The way Mattheo’s jaw clenched, the flush creeping up the back of his neck at the thought of you that Theo had so kindly painted.

“You think letting her be in control makes you weak, don’t you?” Theo spoke, with that smug knowing look on his face. That same look that said ‘I’m your best mate, of course I’ve worked it out before you did’.

Mattheo scowled harder, refusing to dignify him with an answer to a question he already knew. And Theo knew alright, he could read Mattheo like a book, probably better than he knew himself. For better or for worse.

Currently Mattheo was learning towards worse.

Theo leaned in just enough for his voice to drop low, almost conspiratorial. “Take it from me, it doesn’t. It makes you smart. Let her think she’s running the show, and you’ll get more than you ever knew to ask for.”

Mattheo scoffed, pretending the words slid right off him, but Theo wasn’t done.

“Course,” he added lightly, flipping a page in his textbook, “if you’re too scared to try it, she can always come to me. I’m good with first-timers, y’know.”

Mattheo’s head snapped up, his glare dangerous, but Theo was already scanning his notes like the conversation was over.

“You’re an insufferable prick, Nott,” Mattheo muttered. Well used to Theo’s distinct lack of embarrassment by now.

“And you…” Theo replied without looking up, “are going to be thinking about this all bloody night. Let her fuck you and be done with it.” He shrugged, voice lacking any sympathy for his predicament.

Mattheo’s forehead fell down against the table with a groan, because as much as he hated to admit it, Theo wasn’t wrong.

It was just a throwaway comment. Theo being Theo and needling for sport. Mattheo knew that. But it stuck, like tyres spinning in a muddy field. Each time Mattheo shook the taunting sound of his best friends teasing off— it felt like he was digging himself deeper.

And by the time he was back in his dorm, tossing his books and half finished essay to the side, the words had wormed their way right under his skin and settled.

Let her think she’s running the show.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the idea. Merlin, his cock stiffened just thinking about you, never mind the thought of you on top of him.

No, it was the exposure that came along with it— because Mattheo was a control freak. He latched on to situations where he could control how people felt towards him, how you felt towards him. And giving that all up, no matter how minor it seemed, terrified him.

But now, thanks to Theo and his love for meddling, he was beginning to realise that it wasn’t the ‘what if’ that might be the problem here. It was him.

He flopped onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling, jaw tight. He could picture you in his mind without trying— sitting in his lap, hands braced on his chest, that determined glint in your eyes when you were set on proving a point. He imagined the roll of your hips, the heat of your thighs caging him in, the smug little smirk you’d wear because you always got what you wanted, eventually.

Mattheo shifted uncomfortably, dragging a hand down his face. Fuck, stop thinking about it, he told himself as he adjusted his trousers, ignoring the stirring sensation that pooled in his stomach.

Except then the image shifted. It wasn’t him under you anymore. It was Theo. And for some godforsaken reason, that was worse, and better, all at once.

His stomach knotted. He’d kill him. He’d actually kill him. But the sound— in his head, imagined, yet as clear as day— of Theo’s low groan when you moved? Yeah, that might just kill him first.

“But Matty,” You whined with a faux pout on your lips, arms crossed over your chest dramatically. Mattheo’s eyes rolled as his arm tightened around your shoulders, guiding your smaller frame to walk alongside him.

“It’s late, sweetheart.” Mattheo’s voice was raspy from the firewhiskey he’d been drinking all evening, a sleepy haze lacing his words. But you were in no mood to call it a night, much to your boyfriend’s evident frustration.

“Ugh, you’re no fun..” you huffed, earning a snort from behind you. Theo was trailing a few paces behind, choosing to leave the Hufflepuff party at the same time as you and Mattheo. Which wasn’t exactly out of the ordinary, dating Mattheo sometimes felt like dating Theo, there was never one without the other— and you’d accepted this well before you even officially became a couple.

“Yeah Matty,” Theo echoed with a lazy smirk, falling into step on your other side and wedging you between the two boys. “Don’t be such a bore. The girl just wants a bit of fun.”

Theo’s thick brows wiggled suggestively, coaxing a shy laugh from your throat. Ever the gentleman with his sexual innuendos, everyone had long stopped groaning at his lack of embarrassment in that department— sex jokes were a given when you were dealing with men who behaved like horny teenagers.

You snorted, shooting Theo a grin that he returned happily. But Mattheo’s jaw flexed, his grip around you tightening as though he could shield you from Theo’s words by sheer force.

“She gets plenty of fun,” your boyfriend muttered under his breath, his tone both flat and warning.

You were oblivious— partially— to the silent standoff between them, mistaking Mattheo’s unsociableness for tiredness. Quietly, you pressed closer into his side, the faint smell of aftershave and cigarette smoke invading your senses as you breathed him in.

His arm slung around your shoulders tugged you closer as you traipsed through the dungeons, a comforting heat as your short skirt and crop top offered little warmth in the draughty corridors. You buried yourself further into Mattheo as you waited for the staircase to change, silently cursing the magic that typically would have had you in awe.

Theo hummed from beside you, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels as though the tension he was creating between you all was nothing but entertainment for him.

“Does she now? ’Cause if I didn’t know better, that’s not entirely true— is it, Matty?” He pressed, his eyes skimmed over the top of your head, smirking towards your boyfriend as if you weren’t there at all.

Your cheeks burned, half from the firewhiskey, and half from Theo’s deliberate jab. You’d all had a bit to drink tonight, but you didn’t feel that drunk anymore. Not with the way Mattheo stopped dead in his tracks, pulling you to a stop too as he glared sharp enough to slice clean through his best mate.

“Careful, Nott.” he gritted out, voice low and dangerous. Like something was transpiring between the two boys, something that you evidently were not privy to.

Theo just lifted his hands in mock surrender, eyes glinting like he’d already won. Ignoring the way your head twisted between the two boys confusedly.

“Relax, Riddle. I’m not offering. Just observing.” His gaze flicked down to you briefly, then back to Mattheo, a sick grin tugging at his lips. “Unless, of course, she’s been begging you for something you’re too bloody stubborn to give.”

You stiffened, suddenly hyperaware of the tension coiling between them. Inquisitive, your eyes fixed on Mattheo, the pieces beginning to fit together as you took in the expression on his face. A mix of a scowl and a deer caught in headlights, his lips parted and eyes blinking towards Theo silently. The three of you still stopped dead in the centre of the corridor.

“Uh…Mattheo?” You nudged cautiously. You weren’t certain, but you weren’t stupid either. A sinking feeling of embarrassment began to harden in your stomach, nausea creeping in and replacing the warm feeling you’d been floating around with all evening.

Theo’s words clearly struck a nerve in your boyfriend, who’d stiffened and was having a silent standoff with his best friend. It wasn’t like Mattheo to discuss things of that… nature with Theo.

You knew all too well how defensive he became when someone was prying into his personal life, and without sounding big headed— you knew you were a particular sore spot for Mattheo.

Yet Theo’s grin turned positively wolfish. “That look she gives you sometimes. Frustrated, all wound up. Not from lack of effort, no—” his eyes flicked to you, then deliberately back to Mattheo, “—but from lack of freedom.”

You blinked, caught between confusion and embarrassment, mouth opening and closing in blatant shock. The way his lips curved round each word, the slight twinge of his accent as he spoke, all of it made clear that this ran deeper than Theo’s typical teasing. Mattheo, however, looked like he might kill him, or at least try to.

You were certain now, Mattheo had to have told Theo about your sex life, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t positively mortified.

“Shut your mouth.” Mattheo’s voice was like gravel, low and venomous. His arm tightened around you again, as though if he held you close enough, he could stop the words from reaching you.

Theo just chuckled, shaking his head. “Touchy, touchy. Don’t worry, tesoro,” he added with a wink in your direction, “your boy here just likes to keep his hands firmly on the reins. Isn’t that right, Matty boy?”

Your lips parted, questions bubbling up, but Mattheo cut you off with a sharp tug, practically dragging you away down the corridor towards the common room. Even as you tried to ask what the fuck Theo was on about.

“—Don’t. listen to him.” Mattheo cut you off, his words clipped, final, and leaving no room for argument. His grip firm against your shoulder as his pace quickened. You were near enough jogging to keep up with him, glancing back at a smug Theo as your boyfriend hissed the password at the concealed entrance in the dungeons.

Mattheo’s grip on your arm didn’t loosen until he’d ushered you to step into the Slytherin common room, his chest brushing against your back as he followed close behind you. It was empty at this time, students either still at the Hufflepuff party or in Hogsmede. Which in the moment, unsure of whatever was going on between the two boys, you were immensely grateful for.

The fire had burned low, casting the space in deep orange shadows. Empty—except for you, Mattheo, and Theo, who strolled in behind with all the ease of a cat who’d cornered his prey.

“Just… don’t listen to him, sweetheart. He’s being an arse.” Mattheo muttered again, guiding you gently toward the stairs, seemingly hell bent on getting you as far away from Theo as possible.

You could feel him behind you as you climbed the stairs, following the familiar path towards his dorm room. Glancing behind you caught the tail end of his movements, a hand running through his curls like it might clear the storm from his face. You saw the way he glanced back at Theo and mouthed something you couldn’t work out, but from the way his back straightened menacingly, you could hazard a guess that it was some variation of a threat.

Theo followed. Of course he did, not one to miss out on teasing your already irritated boyfriend. He was grinning like the Cheshire fucking cat, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes. The two of them like an old married couple as Mattheo groaned and told him, audibly this time, to piss off.

You let yourself into Mattheo’s dorm with a practiced ease, a sobering wave of exhaustion settling in your bones as you crossed the room. Mattheo had already begun toeing off his shoes by the dresser, not caring where they landed.

Part of you was angry, shuddering at the thought of Mattheo sharing details about intimate moments that should’ve been reserved for the two of you. But it was embarrassment that won out, your cheeks still painted with a noticeable flush as you settled onto his mattress and reached down to the thin straps of your heels.

“You know,” Theo chirped in a lazy voice, appearing at the doorframe a moment later, letting himself in without a modicum of remorse. “It’s a shame, really. But if you can’t keep her entertained, Riddle, just know I could.”

Your head snapped towards Theo, who had wandered in and taken to leaning against his bedpost. Mattheo had stepped forward fiercely, putting himself between you and his best friend. His mouth had dropped open, but you got there first.

“That’s enough, Theodore,” you snapped, turning the full force of your glare on him. “What I do with my boyfriend is none of your business. I don’t know what has gotten into you both, but it stops… now.”

Your arms folded across your chest, ignoring the glance that Mattheo shot you. The last thing you needed was a lecture from him on why feeding into Theo’s needling was a bad idea.

The tension coiled in the air like a thick blanket, settling over the silent dorm room as neither boy offered you an answer. Mattheo stood with his jaw tight, now avoiding your eyes and glaring at Theo— who just stared back at you, that stupid smirk still on his lips.

“You’re right, Tesora.” Theo relented, sitting down on the edge of his mattress, and risking a small glance towards Mattheo, “I, for one, am terribly sorry…” his hand waved halfheartedly and crossed against his chest, “Sorry that your boyfriend’s too much of a control freak to ever let you fuck him properly.”

Mattheo’s eyes squeezed shut, inhaling sharply at the same time that your jaw dropped. Your face burning red with embarrassment, staring wordlessly between the two boys.

“I- That’s… none of your concern, I mean…” You stutter helplessly, fingers twisting the bedsheets beside you to occupy your hands. Mattheo only sighed, teeth gritted together as he pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“Come off it, love,” Theo scoffed, leaning back on his hands to support his weight, legs spreading casually. “I know you’re dying to show him what he’s missing.” His head nodded in Mattheo’s direction as he spoke.

Then, he patted his thigh, utterly at ease.

You froze, jaw agape as your pulse raced in your throat.

Mattheo seemed to be equally taken aback. He looked at you, then at Theo, fury blazing—but he didn’t move. His jaw worked, lips parting like he wanted to object, but no words came.

And that silence… that silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

“Well?” Theo’s head tilted, voice smooth and entirely calm. Like he hadn’t just propositioned his best friend's girlfriend like it was completely ordinary.

“I…” your words caught in your throat, eyes wide and mouth working to wrap around some sort of response to that.

Your heart beat rapidly in your chest, so quick you began to hear it echoing in your ears. Mattheo still hadn’t said a word, hadn’t so much as uttered a single syllable in your defence. He just stared, eyes flickering between your still frame and Theo’s relaxed stance.

A different sensation coiled in your belly, the prior embarrassment and nausea melted away and was replaced with something new. A burning heat that made your cheeks flush darker and your mouth dry up. Maybe you were drunker than you first thought, or maybe Theo had mastered wandless magic and cast imperio on you.

Whatever the reason, you felt the burning desire to fulfill his request.

Mattheo hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t moved. But you could feel him watching—could feel the weight of his stare press against your skin like a hot iron. His jaw ticked, his fingers flexing once at his side, and still he gave you nothing. No stop. No claim. Just that unbearable silence that made your pulse kick harder.

You swallowed, legs unsteady as you moved closer. Your skin prickled; the wrongness was suffocating, but the thrill of it made your stomach twist. One word from him and you’d have stopped, you knew that. One word, and Theo wouldn’t even have tried. But Mattheo didn’t speak. He just stared through narrowed eyes, watching with a mix of curiosity and lust clouding his vision.

That feeling at the pit of your stomach began to bloom, and with one nervous glance back over your shoulder you met Mattheo’s eyes. Burning, more black than brown, thick with something you couldn’t place.

Theo’s hand slid up your hip, tugging you forward, and the moment you hovered above him the air in the room shifted. Mattheo’s lips parted like he might intervene, and then—nothing. No command. No release. Just that sharp, blistering restraint that felt more like permission than anything else ever could.

When you finally sank down, Theo’s exhale was rough in your ear, but you barely heard it. All you felt was Mattheo’s gaze, searing through every movement, every shaky breath. His knuckles were bone-white from how hard his fists were clenched, his shoulders wound tight as if he were barely holding himself back.

He didn’t stop you. He didn’t even speak a word against Theo’s request. The choice—this entire filthy, shattering choice—was his as much as yours.

“See?” Theo murmured, voice silk and smoke. Humming appreciatively as you swallowed down the nervous gasp that threatened to spill from your lips. “She’s a natural.”

And when you shifted, just slightly, just enough to feel the undeniable press beneath you? Mattheo’s breath left him in a ragged sound that sealed his fate.

“She looks angelic, no?” Theo questioned, his fingers slipping down your hips and pressing firmer against your thighs. You had to bite down on your bottom lip to stop any sound escaping, your eyes still firmly fixed over your shoulder on Mattheo.

Your boyfriend stared at the scene like he wasn’t quite sure where to look. From the moment you’d stood, his eyes had turned dark, thick with that same look of lust he got whenever he got hard. You’d seen it a million times, you knew what it looked like… and that reassurance made up for everything you were about to do.

Gently you rocked your hips, just slightly, just enough that Theo’s grip tensed around your thighs. The pads of his fingers dug into your skin, it felt different from Mattheo’s touch. Where Mattheo was soft and gentle, reverent and boyfriend-like; Theo was calloused and firm, lust-filled and craving.

Theo’s jeans pressed against your bare legs as your skirt rode up an inch higher, you could barely contain the gasp as he moved you. Tugging you down till your core pressed against his thigh, the slightest brush against your clit coaxing a whimper to fall from your lips.

“That’s it,” Theo breathed approvingly, his hands bracketing your thighs, tugging you into motion before you could object. The rough drag of denim between your legs, only separated by the thin cotton of your underwear and his jeans, made your head fall back with a sharp gasp.

Mattheo sucked in a breath, the ghost of a groan caught in his throat. His eyes followed every stuttered roll of your hips, guided by Theo’s rhythm, studying every gasp and muffled moan that came from you.

Mattheo made a noise, a growl almost and for the longest moment you thought he’d snap— tell you to get the fuck off his best friends lap and drag you away by the wrist. But instead Mattheo shifted his weight, his jaw loose as he stood less than a meter away, and his hand snaked between his legs. Rough and deliberate, palming himself through his trousers as though the sight of you riding his best friend's thigh was impossible to look away from.

Your breath hitched at the movement, your efforts stilling as the realisation washed over you, shame and heat colliding in your stomach. Mattheo wasn’t pissed, he was hard. Rock hard. And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

And instead of stopping you, instead of prying his darling girlfriend off of his best friend's thigh, he muttered, voice dark and deliberate, “Go on, angel. Let him feel how needy you get.”

The words shot through you like fire. Your head fell back, a gasp tumbling free as you ground down harder against Theo’s thigh.

“F-fuck…” you whispered, though you weren’t even sure who it was made for anymore. Too caught up in the drag of your core against Theo, in the look in Mattheo’s eyes as he palmed himself to the sight.

You didn’t notice him move until he was there—looming heat at your back, swallowing you whole. Theo’s grin twitched when Mattheo’s chest pressed flush against your back, pinning you against him. Trapping you between two bodies.

Mattheo’s cock ground into your spine, heavy and insistent, his grip bruising on your hips as his fingers snaked around your frame. He breathed against your shoulder, voice wrecked and frayed.

“Couldn’t just sit there.” Mattheo murmured with a dry laugh, like sharing his girlfriend was the most normal thing.

Theo’s laugh was low and knowing, his hands sliding higher on your thighs, tilting your body to grind down harder against him. “Knew you wouldn’t….”

And then you were caught between them, writhing on Theo’s lap while Mattheo rutted against your back, two different types of hunger tearing you open from both sides.

“I…” you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as the feeling intensified. Theo’s thigh flexed beneath you, his thick muscles from quidditch giving you more pleasure than you could handle. Mattheo’s lips attached themselves to your neck, alternating between kisses as drags of his teeth against sensitive skin. Two pairs of hands grasped at you, pulling you back and forth like some twisted game of tug of war.

“Shhh sweetheart,” Theo cooed, his thigh flexing so that each drag of your hips brushed against taught muscle.

Mattheo groaned, kissing his way up the side of your throat, “That’s it…” he encouraged, teeth nibbling at your earlobe, “Show me how desperate you are… for both of us.”

“Ma-Matty!” You whimpered, eyes still squeezed shut. The filth he was whispering in your ear only serving to push you closer to the edge, chasing your orgasm as you rocked against Theo in sloppy thrusts.

Mattheo’s chest was a furnace at your back, his hand searing against your hip as he forced you to grind harder against Theo’s thigh. The guttural sound he let out vibrated through you, making your whole body jolt.

Theo tipped his head back with a smug little grin, eyes locking with Mattheo’s over your shoulder, “Fuck, she’s so wet…” he groaned.

You could only bite down harder on your bruised lip, as Mattheo laughed darkly.

His teeth grazed your ear as he bent closer, making a point of whispering in your ear as he replied, “Don’t act like you’re not enjoying it, Nott.”

Theo’s grip on you tightened as he huffed an amused sigh, groaning, “Salazar knows I am.” into the room.

The words seemed to snap something in Mattheo. His cock pressed harder against your ass, the sharp roll of his hips chasing friction while his hand slid up your body, cupping your breasts roughly.

Your whine was drowned out by Mattheo’s grunts as he thrust against you. His fingers brushed against your side, sneaking underneath your top and sliding against your nipples through your bra. Which only made you whine louder.

“She’s mine,” Mattheo bit out, the claim edged with a growl as he looked straight at Theo. “Don’t forget that while you’ve got her squirming in your lap.”

Theo only smirked, rocking your hips down against his thigh until you cried out. “Mine, yours— doesn’t change how fucking sweet she feels right now.” Theo retorted, his jaw tightening as he shifted, growing hand just watching you writhe.

The heat between the three of you spiked, molten and consuming. One of Mattheo’s hands slid up to your throat, pushing your head back onto his shoulder, forcing you open, forcing you to feel everything.

The hard muscle of Theo beneath you, the insistent rut of Mattheo behind you, two sets of hands claiming and guiding you like you were the rope in a game neither planned on losing.

Mattheo groaned into your skin, breath hot. “Fuck, angel… look at you. Falling apart between us.”

And when your body arched, grinding helplessly against them both, Theo answered with a low, wicked chuckle, his lips brushing your jaw: “Helpless little thing. You don’t even know who you want more, do you?”

A broken whimper tore from your throat, everything about this felt wrong, so filthy, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to put a stop to it. You hips rutted with a mind of their own, even without the added guidance from their hands, you weren’t sure you’d be able to stop even if you wanted to.

Part of you should feel ashamed, dirty even, yet the delicious drag of your slick across muscle distracted you from the guilt. Your hands jolting forward to grasp onto Theo’s shoulders to steady yourself.

Mattheo was whispering praise in your ear, his voice deep and gritty as he watched your face contort in pleasure through his own half lidded eyes.

Theo’s thigh flexed again, hard, and the friction stole the air right out of your lungs. Your body jolted forward, then back against Mattheo’s cock, trapped in an unrelenting rhythm that left you clawing at Theo’s shoulders.

“F-fuck, Matty—” you gasped, head falling back onto his shoulder.

“Shhh, that’s it, angel,” Mattheo rasped, his hand tightening around your throat as he ground himself against you from behind. His lips dragged over your ear, teeth catching your lobe. “Such a good girl.”

Theo’s smirk curved sharper, his eyes fixed on your face as you trembled. “She’s close,” he drawled, rocking you faster against his leg, your soaked panties leaving a wet smear over his jeans. “You feel that, Riddle? Your girl’s about to come apart on me.”

Mattheo growled low, the sound vibrating through your back. “On us,” he corrected, his hand sliding down to your clit, pressing harsh circles that made you choke on a cry. “Say it, angel. Say who you’re coming for.”

The words tangled on your tongue, pleasure surging too high, too fast. Your hips stuttered helplessly, every nerve drawn tight like a bowstring.

“I—Matty—Theo—please, s’too much—” Your voice broke into a moan, your whole body convulsing as release hit. The orgasm tore through you in waves, clenching around nothing, your thighs shaking as you rode it out against Theo’s thigh while Mattheo’s fingers dragged you higher still.

Theo groaned at your words, his hands gripping you tighter to steady your spasms, a smug smirk plastered across his face as he exhaled.

Mattheo’s forehead pressed to your temple, his breath ragged. He didn’t stop touching you, coaxing every last tremor out of your body until you collapsed against Theo’s chest, boneless and panting.

For a long moment, the only sound was your desperate breathing, broken up by Mattheo’s guttural curses under his breath. His hand finally stilled against you, gripping your hip so hard it bordered on bruising.

Theo chuckled, low and satisfied, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “Told you, mate,” he murmured, gaze still fixed on Mattheo, “she just needed a bit of freedom.”

Mattheo’s jaw flexed. His hand shot to your chin, tilting your head back toward him, forcing your dazed eyes to meet his. His stare was molten, possessive, but laced with something else too—something dangerous and new.

“She’s mine,” Mattheo repeated, voice raw, his hand gripping your jaw as though Theo might try to steal you out from under him. His stare was all fire and iron, daring Theo to contradict him.

Theo only smirked, unbothered, his hand smoothing down your thigh like he was testing how far he could push.

Mattheo’s eyes flicked to his, sharp and burning. “Don’t get used to it.”

The threat hung heavy in the air, but with your body still trembling against Theo’s lap and Mattheo’s breath ragged at your ear, it sounded more like a promise than a warning.

Theo’s answer was only a crooked grin, slow and wicked, and the heat in Mattheo’s eyes made your stomach lurch, a sickening feeling that this was far from over.

What’s worse, you weren’t sure if you loved or hated that fact.

a/n: hi, I’m literally screaming at the fact I’m posting this, I’m terribly sorry for being so MIA lately. I’ve just started playing hogwarts legacy and it’s finally kickstarted my brain into writing something, more to follow I hope! I’m still a little rusty, but I can’t stop thinking about this ever since @sinsandlemonade and @voidofsunlight first got me thinking about mattheodore. Perhaps a part two with significantly less clothing is in order…

He’d been exceptionally rude to you in the corridor on the train, sneering as he snatched his hand out and grabbed the door to an empty carriage you’d just reached for yourself. You’d frowned, standing your ground and straightening your spine as you stared back at him. 

His eyes were piercing. The shade of a very pale blue— one you could only describe as stormlike, and devoid of warmth. More of a steely grey than cerluean. 

Detached, you’d thought. Cold. 

His skin had the same porcelain smoothness, equally as fresh and pristine as his hair. His cloak and school robes were ironed and proper, unlike your own slightly rumpled uniform, something which made you shift uneasily as you studied him. And he carried himself how someone with only unsurmisable wealth could, his lingering gaze cutting and his thin mouth drawn tightly shut.  

He’d demanded the carriage, not with words but with his stance, glaring at you like you were nothing more than a bothersome fly flitting around his head. It was clear your presence was not welcomed, and so any thought of offering to share the carriage dissipated just as quickly as it had struck. Even at eleven years of age you recognised his demeanour, his entitlement. 

You had responded childishly, something along the lines of ‘but I was here first.’ outrage etched into your adolescent features, wholly unaware of what opulence the blonde haired boy had come from— he didn’t play fair, he played to win. And win he would. 

He had taken a moment to appraise you, eyes flitting over his perceived inadequacies before he spoke. And while you couldn’t recall the exact words he’d replied with, you remembered it was something cruel. Something ostentatious enough that a laugh had bubbled in your throat, the sound caught between nervousness and offense. It was enough to stop you in your tracks long enough that he was the one who triumphantly slid the door to the compartment shut, claiming the carriage for himself before you could even blink. 

Later that evening— once Professor McGonagall had informed you and your peers of the sorting ceremony and each house's brief history— it was no surprise that Draco Malfoy was sorted into Slytherin house. 

Nor was it shocking, that when you had clambered onto the very same stool—your fingers clasped politely in your lap, nerves shot— that the sorting hat had taken a mere two seconds before announcing, “Gryffindor!” and a round of cheers sounded from one of the long tables that ran the length of the hall. 

As you settled into a spot at the house table, you caught the faintest curl of his lip from across the Great Hall. Those same cold eyes fixed on you like a target was pinned to your forehead. A crease formed between your brows then, wondering why on earth the blonde haired boy was scowling in your direction. 

Very quickly you learned of Gryffindor and Slytherin’s exceptional rivalry. Both in academic and extra-curricular activities, the two houses clashed. Whether it was who was best at perfecting tricky charms; you. Or who was the most successful in brewing difficult potions; him. It didn’t matter. 

Only one thing was for certain, the rivalry was rife. And somewhere in all that contention, standing right in the centre, was Draco Malfoy— a permanent thorn in your side. 

In first year, he was the boy who sneered at your hair and asked if you even knew how to use a wand. You hadn’t understood why he said it like that. Slowly. Deliberately. With a venom that seemed too severe for petty school ground arguments. 

Later, you learned what being muggle-born meant. And you learned what he meant by it, too. 

By third year, he’d made it something of a sport— seeing how quickly he could make you snap… and vice versa. You’d perfected an eye roll by then, matching his snide comments with an equally dry retort, and that only made him grin wider and probe further. 

But come the term after your final summer holidays, a fresh start as young adults in your final year at Hogwarts, something had changed. Particularly, in the way that you saw each other, or rather, the new light in which those exchanged scowls were bathed in. 

For a start, you’d never recalled noticing the muscles that ripped across his back before. How, when he donned his Quidditch uniform, the fabric pulled taught around his shoulders and his regrettably athletic thighs. The areas covered by shin guards and chest plates only served to make matters worse, laces knotted tightly to keep them in place whilst simultaneously accentuating every dip and sharp line of his slender frame. 

Though he was more pointy with his sharp cheekbones and gaunt eyes, different to the round faced child-like way you remembered him, he was still unmistakably a Malfoy. The chiseled lines of his jaw etched with stubble, skin still pale as snow yet more defined, more mature. And… had his eyes always been such an enticing whirl of stormy grey? You were certain they’d always been cold and beady, though now you weren’t so sure. 

Equally, he had done a double take of his own as you passed by him in the corridors that first week back. Unable to tear his unruly gaze away from the way your skirt hugged the curve of your ass, revealing bare skin between its hem and the tops of your knee high socks. Or the way your curls— which had always been long locks of untameable frizz in his eyes— now fell in sleek waves across your robed shoulder. Enticing him to reach out and capture a curl around his fingers, like he hadn’t sneered at the mere thought of your presence for the best part of six years. 

But, more than anything aforementioned, he had noticed your face. Different somehow to the way it normally looked, like with age you’d grown into your features— and, rather painfully, he acknowledged that the spattering of freckles he’d once mocked now made you look sun-kissed. So intoxicating that it made him want to bury his nose into the curve of your throat and inhale, if only to be surrounded by the scent of that sweet perfume you wore, which lingered in the air long after you’d swept past.

The day his head snapped up instinctively upon catching a whiff of that very perfume was cemented into his mind. The rush of disappointment upon discovering that some other student had begun wearing your signature scent was still fresh in his memory. Draco had taken to treating himself to a very cold, very uncomfortable shower. With the hope that the icy water might shock his nervous system enough to fix whatever sickness he was coming down with, something severe he assumed, considering he could barely stand to be in the same room as you most days. 

Alas, the cold shower did little to alleviate his symptoms. As when he caught a glimpse of your glossy curls in a very routine scan of the Great Hall that evening, he couldn’t resist taking another peek over at the smile plastered across your face. 

Draco swallowed hard in that moment, eyes downcast whilst he continued chasing his dinner around the plate with his fork, as an unsettling feeling churned low in his gut. Something he loathed to admit to himself, something that felt an awful lot like jealousy towards whoever put that smile on your face. 

“Oh for crying out loud.” You grumbled under your breath, knees bending as you jumped once more, your outstretched fingers straining to grasp at the leather bound tome feebly. 

Just typical that the library book you’d been scouring the shelves in search of for the past half hour was stacked firmly out of reach. Taunting you each time the tips of your fingers scuffed the binding. This was all you needed, with an Ancient Ruins deadline fast approaching, you were running out of time to be running up and down amongst the stacks in search of an alternative.

You’d waited all week for the text to become available, considering someone else had checked the book out the same day your assignment had been set, presumably for the same essay. Now was your only chance to grab it, and in some cruel attempt at humour, the universe had decided to place it on the top most shelf— and coincidentally out of your reach. 

Your shoulders sagged as you accepted defeat. 

Using a spell was out of the question. If Madam Pince caught even a whiff of students using magic to procure their reading material, then she’d surely have them permanently banned from the library for the rest of term— she was awfully protective of Hogwarts’ vast collection and so reluctantly you ignored the urge to reach for your wand. 

You grumbled and huffed as you slung your bag down in front of the shelf, head twisting to locate one of the stools that were dotted around the library. Another of Madam Pince’s genius ideas, surely imagined purely for her own amusement. Not only did she prohibit magic within her domain but encouraged students to rely on more traditional, muggle methods in terms of procurement. 

As a muggle-born yourself, it was hardly a problem for you on a good day, though desperate times made for desperate measures— and you certainly were desprate. You had to shake yourself out of whispering a summoning charm under your breath, forcing your feet to move as you wandered deeper into the winding shelves, frustration curling in your gut. 

“Come on Hogwarts, you’re supposed to be a school of magic.” You muttered to yourself, praying to Godric, Rowena, Helga and Salazar to take pity on your misfortune, just this once. All you needed was that book. A single stool to reach it. It wasn’t much to ask of the four founding conjurors after all. 

It seemed the castle must’ve been listening because right as you’d given up hope, you spotted a lone stool near the gates to the restricted section and sprinted forward to grab it, whispering frantic thank you’s into the quiet library. You probably looked mental to anyone else, but the desperation outweighed any worries you might’ve had. 

With the stool firmly tucked underneath your arm, you were content with retrieving the book and retreating to your dorm to finish your essay. With any luck you’d manage to enjoy the rest of your weekend unbothered by school work, a rare opportunity indeed now you were a seventh year. 

Yet it seemed that your prayers to the founding witches and wizards went unnoticed afterall, your steps faltering as you neared the dreaded shelf once more. Draco Malfoy stood exactly where you’d left your bag, his back to you, an arm casually reaching for the very book that had tormented you for the past half hour. 

“Don’t you dare.” you breathed, arm tightening around the stool that hung in your grasp. Feet speeding up as you hurried towards the blond-headed git with a newfound determination. That book was yours, even if you had to jinx him for it.  

As you neared, he reached up and plucked it from its spot with insulting ease, barely even stretching to retrieve it. A real fuck-you from the universe as you halted at his side. 

“Malfoy, I’ve been looking for that book all week—” you began, slightly out of breath from over exertion, the library dissarmingly labyrinth-like in your tired state. 

At the mere sound of your voice his head turned slowly, twisting round to face you, appraising your out of breath pants and the way your hair messily fell around your shoulders. 

“You and…” he paused, looking you up and down slowly, “…about half the class.” 

His grin remained, turning the book over in his hands as though trying to decide if it was worth his time. “You know, I think I might need this after all.” He mused in that infuriating drawl, wafting the book tauntingly in your direction. 

“Seriously? I’ve been trying to get it for the last half hour— look!” You reasoned frustratedly, producing the stool from under your arm as some feeble attempt at proof, your head nodding towards your bag that still sat at the foot of the shelves. 

As if the young heir ever listened to reason beyond his own opinion.  

“I gathered. All that… hopping.” Draco hummed lazily. His free hand gesturing, gaze flickering between your outraged expression and the stool in your hands, a smug sort of glint in his eyes. 

Your mouth dropped open, your own eyes filling with fury at his blatant taunt. Simultaneously, your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you realised he must’ve been watching you struggle, and well before he even noticed the book at all. Somehow, the thought of his eyes on yours as you struggled made your cheeks turn pinker. 

Why did it have to be him of all people? 

The two of you staredsilently, assessing the other and waiting to make the next move. A routine you’d come to know all too well, for all the years you’d known eachother, you couldnt remember a time you werent at eachothers throats. 

Decisively, your hand snatched out to pry it from his grasp. At the same time, he raised his arm higher, dangling the book just out of reach. Draco let out a disapproving snort, watching you through narrowed eyes as you huffed and dropped your outstretched hand. 

“That’s not fair— I was here first.” You hissed, glaring up at his smug expression with your own stubborn frustration. An uncanny feeling of familiarity spiked in your mind, something so inherently him that you had to take a step back. 

 “That’s my bag right in front of you!” Your free hand gestured down at your belongings in annoyance. 

“Merlin.” He sighed, as though you were the one being unreasonable here. The classic Malfoy sneer, dripping with disapproval and disgust. “You are so… predictable. 

A pang of desperation burned in your chest, your voice dropping lower when you demanded, “Just give me the book? Please.”

He laughed. A deep, provocative chuckle that dug deep underneath your skin. Something akin to hatred boiling in your veins from a simple sound. Draco had always had that affect on you, something about him made your skin prickle. Every sneer or taunt burned deep in your flesh, like a stain that never fully went away. 

“You mean this book?” He tilted it back and forth, the faint candle light catching the embossed title you’d spent the last week trying to track down. Your nostrils flared indignantly as you inhaled deeply, schooling your expression into one of neutrality. Gods, how he infuriated you. Sometimes you wanted to grab him by the throat and strangle him. 

“I think I'll take it for a bit of light reading.” 

“I need it, Malfoy.” you pleaded earnestly, sincerity weighing heavy in your voice. 

“No, you want it.” he retorted smoothly, even though it was painfully evident he was only interested because you were. His lashes fluttered casually as if it weren’t 60% of your final grade on the line. His infuriatingly toned body resting against the shelf, regarding you with mere boredom like a toy he’d grown tired of. 

Your eyes trailed the book as he tucked it close to his chest, one of those strong arms you’d never admit to admiring clamping it against the front of his robes. “But then, wanting something and being able to get it are two…” He mused, pausing for effect, “..very different things.” 

That familiar urge began to coil in the pit of your stomach once more, he was close enough that you could smell his aftershave— citrusy, expensive, annoyingly nice. Something that inexplicably just drew you towards him and frustrated you to no end. Because, somehow, he always pulled a reaction out of you, even when you didn’t want to give him one.

“You’re being a right git, d’ya know that?” you fumed, teeth gritted together. Lashing out for lack of a better response, the way he made your stomach coil and writhe. His smirk widened at your words, as though frustrating you was the highlight of his day. Like he, too, took joy in winding you up.  

 “Of course I am,” he mused, winking, “It’s half the fun.” 

With a scoff you jabbed the stool leg against him, jaw tightening as he barked another laugh, less aristocratic than normal— like your reaction shattered the illusion of elegance that the Malfoy’s so ardently protected. With one hand, he reached out and grasped the foot of the stool, pushing back with ease.

Beneath his robes you swore you saw his biceps tensing as he moved, the sight so vexatiously alluring, you had to tear your gaze away for a second to compose yourself. 

“You could try asking me nicely.” He shrugged, letting out a wistful sigh, still inches from you. Clearly, in the heat of the moment neither of you had thought to back away. His head tilted as he spoke, staring down at you expectantly.

“I did ask you—” 

He scoffed. “No. You demanded it. Then, you attacked me with a footstool.” It was impossible for him to hide the smirk on his lips as he spoke. His stormy gaze watching you in amusement. 

“Well, perhaps, if you didn’t have a habit of stealing things that aren’t yours.” You argued, voice raising slightly in disbelief. Cheeks tinged red from a mix of embarrassment and frustration. 

“Perhaps.” Draco grinned with a distinct lack of shame. “Still doesn’t get you the book.” he tapped the cover for effect, grinning down at your scowling face. 

That’s it, you thought— resorting to lunging forward to try and prise the book from his grasp. But his quidditch reflexes must’ve kicked in, his free hand pushing you as far away from the book as possible, chucking under his breath. 

“Gods I hate you.” You snapped, brows knitting together angrily as your shoulders sagged in defeat. “Just give me it. For once in your snobby, entitled life— don’t be a prat.” 

“Mhm, convincing.” he hummed, leaning down just enough that his breath ghosted across the shell of your ear as he whispered, “But I’ll pass, love.” 

Your breath caught, something you didn’t care to admit pooling in the pit of your belly. His eyes flickered across your parted lips before he straightened sharply, clearing his throat as that smirk spread across his face once more. 

“Anyways,” he said lightly, that Malfoy mask of modesty snapping back into place as he took a step back, flicking invisible lint from his robes, “I’ll try to return it before term ends. No promises, though.” 

“Malfoy— Don’t you dare walk away— Please—” 

But he was already sauntering off between the shelves, your book tucked carefully against his side, looking unbearably pleased with himself. Seething, you stared at the space he had just occupied. It was as if the air itself still crackled with the smugness he left behind. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Something warm and humiliating you refused to examine too closely.

Draco lay sprawled out on his mattress, arms folded behind his head as he stared up at the canopy of his bed. The curtains snapped shut, effectively blocking out the rest of the dorm entirely. He had a headache, a dull painful throb that took the shape of you in that ridiculously short skirt. A cruel, merciless ache that burrowed just as deeply in his chest as his skull. 

He’d tried to sleep. Merlin knew he tried. 

But every time he closed his eyes, there you were— scowling at him in the middle of the library, eyes bright with fury, lips parted as you stood toe-to-toe with him, that stupid footstool in your arms. His head tilted back against the pillows, groaning quietly in frustration. That book he’d pinched from your grasp was stuffed in his bedside drawer, away from his tired eyes. 

Out of sight, out of mind, he’d reasoned. Though that proverb wasn’t strictly true— considering how, for the better part of an hour, he’d been replaying what had happened in the library earlier with far too much focus on the way your breath had hitched when he leant closer. 

Draco rolled onto his side with a resigned huff, stretching his tired limbs tenderly. A few seconds passed before he twisted onto his stomach, flopping back into his original position when he couldn’t get comfortable. 

Nothing helped. Not when his mind kept circulating back to you and those parted lips that for half a second he thought about— No. He should not be thinking about that. And he definitely should not feel hot thinking about that. 

Draco scrubbed both hands over his face, groaning quietly into the darkness. 

“This is not happening.” He told the canopy of his bed, enunciating each word as though commanding the universe to reverse whatever was stirring beneath his pyjama bottoms. Though it seemed both of his heads were preoccupied with thoughts of you. 

And that bloody skirt? Draco had to resist letting his eyes roll into the back of his head at the thought of the short fabric that teased the curve of your ass and treated him to a glimpse of your thighs. Surely it had to be against some sort of school rule, he was in half a mind to raise it to one of the professors, but the risk of never seeing you in it again overruled any rash decisions. He was tired, it was late. He wasn’t in his right mind— all excuses, of course.  

Draco groaned again when the image of your skirt flashed across his closed eyes once more. Dragging his pillow across his face, smothering himself with it frustratedly. A last ditch attempt to shock his body out of whatever lustful pit it had succumbed to.  

Draco inhaled sharply, then exhaled slower. And failed entirely to calm himself down. 

It was like something in his treacherous, backstabbing brain wanted him to suffer. Some cruel way to punish him for all of his transgressions, and yet, as his fingers skimmed past his stomach, threatening to breach the waistband of his pyjama bottoms— he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

His thoughts refocused on you, on what you were doing right now in your own dorm. If you were complaining about him to your friends. Whether your cheeks were still flushed with anger— or something else, his inner voice added unhelpfully. Whether you were as sleepless as he was, tossing and turning in your sheets. 

Draco’s cock throbbed painfull  enjoying the thought of you feeling as helpless as he was. He realised then that he was worse off than he first thought, his slender fingers twitching for the go ahead from his guielful mind. 

It took all of ten seconds before he was wrestling his pyjamas and boxers down his thighs with one hand and reaching for his wand with the other. Casting a whispered “muffilato” and letting the hawthorn fall somewhere unknown amongst his sheets. 

His chest tightened at the same time as his fingers finally wrapped around the length of his cock. The relief instant, dizzying almost. His hips canting upwards into his fist before he could stop himself. Pathetic, even by his standards. 

The shame paled in comparison to the lavicious desire which coursed through his veins, picturing the look on your face if you knew what he was doing to the thought of you. Somewhere, at the very back of his thoughts, he imagined what it would feel like to have your delicate hands wrapped around him— he nearly choked at the mental images that accompanied the thought. 

His fingers tightened their grasp, his eyes slipping shut as he pictured that familiar fury that burned bright in your sun-kissed face. Pictured that standoffish glint that burned a hole right through him, and how beautiful you looked when you were seconds from tearing him to shreds. It was probably the reason he provoked you so often, some ridiculous clandestine attempt to win your attention. 

Merlin, how you drove him mad. 

Draco dragged his fist slowly from base to tip, his breath stuttering out of him as he pictured you again— closer this time. He delighted in crowding your personal space, backing you up against the shelves as he so desperately wished he had done earlier. His imagination sparing no detail, your warm cheeks and your pulse visible in your throat. 

He bit back a groan as he squeezed his fingers tighter, his fist working up and down a little quicker, eyes screwing shut as his mind wandered. His hands spreading your legs open so that he could step between them, that short, flimsy excuse for a skirt creeping further up your thighs, exposing the supple skin to his gaze— and his touch. 

His thumb swept over the head of his cock, smearing the bead of slick that had gathered at the tip, and his hips jerked again as he imagined your tongue licking against the sensitive skin. 

The logical part of his brain was screaming at him, pounding against the side of him that was entirely overcome with desire. But he knew this was so wrong, and he was too used to giving in to his wants to back down now. 

“Always have to make everything difficult,” he muttered, half angry, half breathless, remembering the way you’d looked at him when he refused to hand over the book. The way you’d stepped into his space without the faintest hesitation. The way your frustration had cracked into something else for half a second when he leaned down.

Merlin, that sound you made—barely a sound at all. A hitch in your breath, a stuttered inhale. He could feel it under his skin. His strokes quickened.

He surely imagined it, but your thighs had clenched as you argued. That your pink lips, parted and breathless, had quivered as he leaned close and caught the scent of your perfume. His breath ghosting the shell of your ear with that taunting tone he wanted to say filthy, filthy things in. 

“Look at you…” he whispered hoarsely into the dark, aware of how pathetic he sounded. His knuckles brushing the soft skin of his stomach with every thrust of his hand, “so fucking stubborn—nghh— always trying to prove something.”

His breath faltered. This was borderline insanity, cooped up in his bed and whispering to your non-existent frame about how much you infuriated him, and how badly he wanted you. Perhaps you had struck him again with that footstool and he was in the hospital wing, hallucinating some sordid fantasy he’d never in his right mind admit to.

And yet he continued, picturing you pressed back against the bookshelves, skirt rucked up by his hands, your glare dissolving into something helpless as his lips trailed kisses and nips against your skin. Imagined your fingers curling into his shirt, your thighs parting for him without thinking, your voice breaking on his name…

A sharp, involuntary moan tore from his throat and he froze for a second, listening for a sign that somehow, even with the spell he’d cast, someone had heard. When no sound came, his hand tightened once more and his stomach clenched as he sped up his movements, on the precipice of an orgasm by just picturing you. 

Given half the chance he was certain now he’d act on his desires, practically drooling at the thought of your tight cunt. At the feeling of pushing inside and fucking you on his cock till you could only whimper in pleasure. How he wanted you to feel good, to the same intensity that you seemingly hated him with. 

“Fuck—fuck—” he panted, hips bucking up into his fist as heat pooled low and tight, coiling faster, harder with every stroke, “shouldn’t be—thinking about you—”

The image of you flushed, breathless, glaring at him like you’d kill him and pull him closer in the same moment, pushed him to the edge with brutal force.

Draco’s jaw dropped, a broken sound escaping him as he came hard across his stomach, thighs trembling, breath shuddering out in uneven waves. His free hand fisted into the sheets, gripping them like he needed something to hold onto while his release tore through him.

It took several long seconds for the tension to ease, for his chest to stop rising and falling so sharply. Draco stared up at the canopy, heart still hammering, sweat cooling on his skin.

“Brilliant,” he muttered bitterly under his breath, realising what he had just done, how sordid his feelings for you spiraled. “Absolutely brilliant.”

Because somehow—against every rule he had, against every ounce of pride in his body—you were under his skin. And now he’d have to face you with the knowledge that the only way he’d been able to fall asleep tonight, was with your name on his tongue. 

Merlin, he was completely, utterly, hopeless. 

Almost a week later and Draco had avoided you at all costs, at first it was the shame that kept him away. Unable to trust himself not to crumble at the first sign of conflict, not to recall that very scowl that had morphed into his thoughts in his most intimate moments. Ashamed that somehow, his treacherous mind had taken the intensity that you hated each other with and turned it into something that made his cock harden instantaniously. 

Then, it was anger. Pure, molten wrath that was directed at everyone around him, but the moment you were within earshot he fell quiet. Too conflicted inside to risk drawing your attention his way. He snapped more, his patience running thin at the slightest inconvenience, out of character even for him. To the point even his friends were confused about what was wrong with him, Blaise even urging him to visit the hospital wing on one occasion when he’d snapped at Pansy rather bitterly.    

Finally, it morphed into hopelessness, refusing to even venture into the Great Hall unless he knew for a fact you’d already left. He supposed it made things easier by ignoring you entirely, by cutting out the chance to even interact with you. A defence mechanism, perhaps— not that Draco would ever admit that to himself, or anyone else. 

But a new feeling settled, lodged deep in his chest, that made him want to rip his hair out. A feeling he’d spent years skilfully avoiding; Draco Malfoy felt guilty.

Guilty for being such a git over that stupid library book. Guilty for all the little criticisms and sneers he threw your way. Guilty for tugging one out over your scowl, for Merlin's sake. And, for being such a coward that he was unable to admit out loud that he had feelings for you that couldn’t just boil down to pure hatred. 

Draco was coming to terms with it, in his own muddled way, that his intense reaction whenever you were near was not one born of rivalry and hatred, but of jealousy and desire. The guilt swallowed him whole, realising that he’d been acting like a complete fool around you. Riling you up and purposefully inconveniencing you because of something so trivial like a crush. Draco had thought he was wiser than that, that he was above acting so juvenile over a girl, and yet in the past week his contemplation surmised that he was all those things you’d said, and more. 

But one thought kept recurring, more often than not; how, in Salazar’s green earth, was he going to return that bloody book without also admitting something far more mortifying— that he, Draco Malfoy, cared about what you thought of him. 

He knew he couldnt keep avoiding you, missing the start or end of meals just so he wasn’t forced to see you. Moreover, the guilt he was riddled with over the stunt he’d pulled in the library was beginning to eat away at him. So, when Theo announced he’d be spending his class free morning finishing homework, Draco formulated a plan. Theo had mentioned, in passing, the very complicated essay topic he’d been set in Ancient Ruines over this morning's breakfast. Giving Draco a bright idea as he sulked into his coffee mug at the table. 

He’d skipped lunch entirely, hauling up in his dormitory, the curtains pulled close just in case anyone disturbed him— he’d grown a conscience, not an extra head. Merlin forbid anyone would think he was going soft. 

He kept his word however, scouring the pages lightly for anything that could be relevant. Skimming through chapters that were useless, and thumbing the corners of any pages that piqued his interest. He’d ended up late to Potions as a result, murmuring a quick apology to Snape as he rushed to his desk. He nudged his schoolbag carefully beneath the table and checked it again—there was something inside he intended to return in one piece…

Your head thuded as it dropped against the table, the quiet corner of the library you’d tucked yourself away in deserted; aside from Madam Pince and a few lone students cramming homework and last minute revision. You stifled a groan as your head lifted from the parchment, peering down at your work with a sour expression, it was due at the end of the week and you were no closer to finding any supporting evidence in the other books you’d spent the weekend scouring. 

It was too late now to ask for an extension, and without the textbook Draco had taken you had little hope. Either wait for a bloody miracle, or make do with what you had— even if that now meant you’d given up all of your free time to try and make your line of argument work. 

You shrunk back in your chair and let your quill drop from your grip, your hands reaching up to drag across tired eyes, but as you blinked the sleep from them you were met with another sight. Perhaps the very miracle you’d been silently hoping for. 

In the shape of Draco Malfoy, hovering awkwardly at the side of the desk, his shadow falling over your parchment as your gaze focused. Part of you suspicious that he was a mere figment of your tiredness and desperation, you’d noticed yourself checking over your shoulder for him lately. Keeping alert in case another opportunity to wipe that smug look from his face arose. Or, at least, that's what you had convinced yourself. 

“What do you want?” you said, exhaling as you spoke, settling on something that was neither antagonising nor pleasant. Your arms folded across your chest, teeth toying with your bottom lip absentmindedly.

He stood by the table, ridgid, as if he was holding in a deep breath. His pointy features so composed, you wondered for half a second if it really was him at all. But there was no mistaking the man beside you, the whirl of stormy grey in his eyes unlike anyone elses. 

“Here.” he grimanced, glancing left and right to make sure there were no witnesses to what he was about to do. 

“What—” you began to question him, the words trailing off as his hand plunged deep into his bag, rummaging for a second before producing the library book he’d stolen from right under your nose the week before. 

A soft thud sounded as leather met wood, the textbook landing directly in front of you, half covering the scattered parchment that was sprawled across the workspace. 

Baffled, your wide eyes and open mouth stared down at the tome, then up at him with an equally shocked expression. Draco avoided your gaze, opting to glance up and down the library once more, before settling somewhere between you and the floor. 

Alarm bells were ringing, Draco Malfoy didn’t play nice—and if this was some new strategy, it was an uncharacteristically cruel one.

But something about the way his vision shifted told you it wasn’t. His eyes darted towards the door, scanning up the nearby shelves, and then finally settling on you. Jumping from place to place like he was actually worried about someone seeing this, seeing him.  

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he was nervous— regretful, at least. 

“Is this…” your voice came out hoarse and you paused to clear your throat right as his gaze focused on you again. “Is this your way of apologising?” 

Draco stiffened where he stood, his rhythm faltering as his gaze set on the door but abruptly tore back to you. Two thunder clouds gleaming, grey whirls that almost looked silver in the dim lighting. Staring down at you, at your cheeks, your lips— like he was choosing where lightning would strike first. 

“I’m returning a book,” he said quietly, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. “Not… debasing myself.” He shifted slightly, tugging at the collar of his shirt unnecessarily, fixing it despite it sitting perfectly in place. 

You had to hold yourself back from rolling your eyes, lips pursing as you murmured, “So no apology.” 

His jaw flexed. Door. Shelves. You. But when he looked away this time it wasn’t with disdain. It wasn’t even irritation, either. It was something else entirely, something internal that was clawing its way out. 

“I’m…” his voice came out rougher, a ringed hand reaching up to scrub at his face, “Acknowledging—  there may have been… an incident.” 

He cringed. 

Door. Shelves. You. Door. Shelves. You. 

You stared. Not because his ‘apology’ was horrendous—though it certainly was—but because Draco Malfoy had just performed the emotional equivalent of tearing out his own pride, dropping it onto the desk between you, and pretending he hadn’t done any such thing.

And you didn’t know quite what to do with that. 

Draco cleared his throat once more, eyes dipping towards the desk then meeting yours. “Open it.” he said stiffly, nodding once at the thick leather textbook. His foot tapping restlessly against the stone floors, impatient almost. Like he couldn’t wait to get away from you. Your heart sank a little bit when you noticed.

Your brows creased together, tentatively dropping your gaze to the textbook before you. Then back up at him. Your hands still limp at your sides. Draco’s brow arched as he gestured towards the book once more, waiting for you to reach out and flip the cover open. Cautiously your fingers reached, skimming across the leather binding as your gaze traced the embossed lettering, scrutinizing it for any signs that he’d tampered with it. 

“It was quite an interesting read.” He said, more Draco-like than he’d been moments ago, “I suspect it’ll be quite useful.” he added, tapping a ringed pinky against your parchment. 

Your curiousity got the better of you, and as you flipped open the cover, you froze. Breath catching once more as a surge of relief coursed through your overtired brain.  Two pages were folded with neat, precise dog-ears. Then three. Four. Five. All the way through the textbook, highlighting pages with information relevant to your essay topic.

Your eyes flicked up sharply, then back down to the book. “You… How—” 

Words failed you as you thumbed through the pages, each corner marking the exact sections of every single reference you needed. Paragraphs upon paragraphs of evidence that would undoubtedly mean you’d finish this essay tonight. Folded quietly by a man who refused to apologise but had clearly gone out of his way to fix what he’d done. 

“I don’t know what to say. Draco, this is… Thank—,” You breathed, appreciation heavy in your tone, the words faltering as you looked up from the gift he’d just dropped into your lap, but he was already gone. The space he had just occupied was empty, aside from the lingering scent of his cologne which you recognised instantly. Your head whipped left to right as you half rose from your chair, catching the glint of blonde hair hastily disappearing through the exit to the library. 

Your heart thudded loudly in your ears, a disorienting sound that had very little to do with exhaustion anymore. Sinking back slowly in your chair, your fingers brushed carefully against the folded corner of the page, as if it might disappear if you blinked too hard. 

A strange warmth crawled up your throat—something soft, unwelcome, disarming. Completely unlike any of the normal feelings you had towards Draco Malfoy. This wasn’t the fury following a petty school ground argument, or the determined rivalry that motivated every late night study session. It was something more, something… gentle. 

In one simple act of selflessness— altruism, disguised with a stubbornness that was so inherently him— Draco had managed to rewire a part of you you’d never intended to expose to him. A part that, annoyingly, seemed to soften at the mere thought of him trying.

Your thumb brushed across the folded edges, smoothing them gently as your chest tightened. And just like that, in a way that couldn’t be articulated out loud, something shifted. Quietly, like the ground was suddenly torn from under your feet. Like the strained tension that was always pulled so taut between you both was suddenly pulling you in another direction. 

You swallowed, eyes still on the marked pages, and realised with an odd flutter that Draco Malfoy had fled the scene far too quickly for someone who didn’t care at all. What’s worse, the heat radiating off your cheeks in a furious blush, and the smile that tugged at the edge of your lips were almost impossible to get rid off. 

Somewhere, a little part of you recognised the truth you’d been avoiding for years— that perhaps you hated Draco Malfoy so viciously because he’d never once really seen you. But now he’d noticed you enough to map out every page you needed, without expecting so much as a thank you.

And, Merlin, help you. It unsettled you more than the hatred ever had.

"Silas Wimbly's his name. A Ravenclaw, if I remember correctly. Bit of a toff, came from old money. Parent's spoiled him rotten too, always sent him these massive parcels of sweets— And it was the good stuff, mind you. Liquorice Wands, Pepper Imps. You name it, old Silas had it." Albion shook his head dismissively, scratching at his chin. "Why d'ya ask, love?"

You shrugged, feigning disinterest. "No reason. Just curious s'all."

Albion's eyes settled on you, watching as you wiped over the bar for the third time in ten minutes. Pretending not to feel his gaze burning between your shoulder blades as you worked.

`'Hang on a minute. This isn't about that Riddle lad again—is it?" He asked in an accusatory voice. "I told you before not to go getting mixed up with him." His arms folded across his chest disapprovingly, head canting to the side as you avoided his gaze.

Albion was giving you his sternest Dad look. The older man had taken on a sort of father role when you'd first started here. With no children of his own, the pub was all he had, and as old age was beginning to catch up with him, he'd had no choice but to hire someone else. It'd just so happened that you, freshly out of Hogwarts, a year late due to the war, had been job hunting at the time.

He'd agreed to take you on, temporarily, until you worked out what was next and he'd found someone to train up to take his place. But that had never really happened, and instead, he'd trained you as his assistant of sorts. The plan had never been to stay long, but it seemed that life had other plans for you both. You didn't want to go back into education, and Albion didn't want to find someone new. It was as simple as that.

But now the look Albion was giving you worked all too well, and you sighed and let go of the rag you'd been cleaning with, turning to look at him guiltily.

"I just can't stop thinking about him. It's been three weeks Albs, what if—"

Albion shook his head fiercely, a hand gripping onto your shoulder to steady you. He bent slightly to meet your eyes, and as he did, that familiar pressure began to coil in your chest—guilt and worry rising fast, impossible to swallow.

"What if he's perfectly alright, hmm? Did you think of that?" He said softly, "Listen, I won't pretend I'm fond of the boy, Salazar forgive me. But you're the only family I've got, kid. If it really means that much to you, I'll ask around— Alright?"

Your eyes met his, noting the crooked smile and warm look on his face. Gratitude began to swell in your eyes and you surged forward, wrapping your arms around his shoulders thankfully.

"Thank you Albion," you murmured quietly into his shoulder, squeezing tightly. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

Albion chuckled, wrapping an arm around you and patting your back gently. Your cheeks warmed slightly as you pulled away from him, and he fixed you with a serious look once more.

"Look, you don't get far in my line of work without knowing where to ask." he said, and a smile spread across your lips. "I can't promise anything, but I'll do my best. And in the mean time, you just worry about pouring pints." He patted your arm encouragingly and winked.

You nodded feeling like a weight had been lifted from you. As if just knowing that you were doing something, anything, to find out where Mattheo had disappeared to, magically made things better.

The days trickled by, slow and uneventful. You were antsy, constantly fumbling for a task to distract you. You were showing up even earlier than normal, and you didn't leave till Albion himself was heading upstairs to his flat above the pub.

You didn’t ask for updates, mostly because you were too afraid of what he might say. But every time the bell above the door chimed, some part of you still hoped it would be him. Mattheo. Bleary-eyed, mumbling some half-arsed excuse, dark curls a mess from wherever he'd vanished to.

But it never was. And you were beginning to worry once more.

It was nearly a week later, just after last call, when Albion finally said your name the way someone does when they don’t want to be heard. There was a scarce few customers in, mostly nursing dregs of Dragon Barrel Brandy or Odgen's Firewhiskey. Quiet enough that no one would bat an eyelid at a hushed conversation.

You glanced up from the taps, anxious and expectant. But his expression was already answer enough.

"I asked everywhere I could think to ask,” he said, voice low, reluctant. “Nothing. No one's seen him." Albion frowned, placing a hand on your arm. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to let you down but it's like he's gone off the grid."

You swallowed, staring down at the bar blankly. "It's okay." you nodded, "Thanks for trying anyway, Albs."

Your voice wavered slightly, Albion didn't mention it, but you knew he heard it too. He'd just sighed wearily, the way old men do, and tried to soothe you quietly.

"He'll turn up, love. Try not to worry. Probably just had to get out of London for a bit, a change of scenery. Merlin knows this time of year is hard on us all. Him especially." Albion spoke gently, but you barely even registered his words. You just nodded, agreed with him despite knowing that your mind was already made up— You had to find out for yourself.

"I think I'll head early tonight, if that's alright with you? Try and get some rest." You murmured, wiping a hand across your tired face, "I'll be back in for my shift tomorrow, I can come in early if you need me."

Albion agreed, though clearly reluctant to let you out of his sight, "Alright love, you take as long as you need. I'll sort this lot myself." he said, throwing a glance over to the customers still sat with their near empty drinks.

"Thanks Albs, I really appreciate it." You replied, already untying your apron and turning to hang it on its peg. "See you tomorrow." you added, grasping your wand from beneath the bar and pocketing it.

Before Albion could say another word you'd already called a quick goodbye to the few regulars still left, and left the pub without another word.

You shivered, pulling your coat tighter as you walked along the street. Your mind was in overdrive, thoughts swirling around in your head like smoke. Mattheo had to be somewhere, you reasoned, in half a mind to turn up outside his flat unannounced. You would’ve already, if only you knew where he bloody lived. But you didn’t—and Albion knew even less about him than you did.

Someone had to know where he was.

Your mind flitted to his friends, to Theodore or Blaise, hell you were even considering writing to Draco Malfoy for information on his whereabouts. The only thing that stopped you was that you didn't have his address either, and you were certain the Magical Law Enforcement department wouldn't be best pleased with you wasting one of their top Auror's time with a suspected missing persons case.

That, and, you weren't so sure many people at the Ministry would consider Mattheo Riddle to be deserving of any official MLE resources.

There was one person you could ask, though, and it seemed your feet had already led you there against your better judgment. Your gaze flitted up towards the sign, which hung limply outside the dark pub, swinging gently in the breeze. Straightening your jacket once more, you slid a hand inside your pocket, pulling your wand out and slipping it up your sleeve.

Just in case.

It was risky, you knew it was, but you were desperate. And it seemed that no one could give you the answers you were looking for. So, seeking them out yourself was the next best option. A couple staggered out just as you approached, laughing too loudly, the smell of smoke clinging to their cloaks. One of them paused to eye you curiously, and you glanced away quickly, fingers tightening on your wand. Once they passed, you exhaled a deep breath, pushing open the door to the Leaky Cauldron and stepping inside.

Unlike Albion's pub, the Leaky Cauldron was still busy. Packed with witches and wizards, and all sorts of magical creatures— goblins, hags, vampires. You tried not to pay anyone attention, nodding politely towards Tom, the barkeep, as you brushed through the crowd and headed to the back door.

It had been a few months since you'd ventured into Diagon Alley, but as you tapped the brick, three up and two across from the rubbish bin, with the tip of your wand, you felt the same rush of nostalgia. Recalling the first time you'd ever come here, fondly.

The street unfolded before you in a familiar dance of moving bricks and old magic. Revealing shop fronts and cobbled streets, you'd spent the majority of your teenage years wandering in awe. But it didn’t feel like it used to. Back then, Diagon Alley had shimmered with promise. Now, under the haze of doubt and nightfall, it felt like a ghost of what it had been. Still alive. Just different.

During the war, many of the shops had been destroyed in Death Eater raids, including Olivanders wand shop. Though rebuilt to look like it once had, you could tell it was different now. Subtle details sticking out like sore thumbs, signs that had once been charmingly weathered and flaked, now sparkled bright and pristine. Like everyone was desperate to forget the way they'd been splintered and marred by pure evil.

It felt clinical now, off-puttingly so. But you weren't here to pick out every minor discrepancy you spotted; you were here for answers.

Summoning up the courage, you began to walk, ignoring the way your heart raced in protest. Albion would kill you himself if he knew what you were doing, but he didn't need to know. You'd be quick, in and out, no distractions.

You swallowed down a nervous breath as you spotted the sign for Knockturn Alley. Oddly enough, it was the most normal thing about Diagon Alley now, untouched by the raids, the paintwork was still as flaky and dull as you remembered it. Glancing up and down the street, you checked for familiar faces, just in case someone spotted you heading down into the heart of dodgy schemes and lingering dark magic.

You moved swiftly, back straight and wand clutched tightly up your sleeve. Prepared for anything— and anyone— you might encounter. The difference between Diagon and Knockturn was noticeable immediately; the cobbles underfoot became filthy and uneven, feet stumbling as you grew used to the terrain.

"Lost are we, dear?" A voice called out in a croaky voice. "I could help you find what you're looking for, you know."

Your head turned slightly, and you came face to face with an old woman, or at least, what you thought was a woman. Considering she looked exactly like the hags described in your old school textbooks.

Her face was covered in warts, teeth jagged and yellow, and she was hunched over against the wall as if unable to stand without support. Your eyes scanned over her briefly, taking in the long, spindly fingers that twisted together menacingly, her dirt-covered, splintered nails made you want to gag.

"I'm fine on my own, thanks." You hissed confidently, despite feeling very out of your depth, and swept past, continuing down further into the darkened streets.

She called after you faintly, and your face soured as you forced yourself to keep walking, keeping your eyes focused on finding what you were looking for. As you ventured further, you began to realise why you'd been so heavily warned to avoid Knockturn as a child.

Each figure you passed seemed to get worse and worse as you walked further, the hairs on the back of your neck prickling up in apprehension.

Your eyes scanned across the shop fronts, skin crawling as you spotted a shop named Arachne’s Attic selling giant, black spiders all tangled in a vast web in the window display. The shop next door, aptly named The Shrunken Shrine, held large glass cabinets filled with shrunken heads and skulls, as well as various paraphernalia which could only be associated with dark magic.

You grimaced and hurried on, spotting Borgin & Burkes, the shop which had allowed Death Eaters to infiltrate Hogwarts in your sixth year, thanks to the efforts of one— now reformed, Ministry Auror— Draco Malfoy, and the vanishing cabinet in the Room of Requirement.

The discomfort of Knockturn was enough to put you off ever returning again, containing yourself as you passed yet another shop, named, rather tamely, Still Life. Selling taxidermies of two-headed ravens and what looked suspiciously like Grindylow Skeletons.

Still, you walked further. Finally, you reached the street where you knew the illegal vendors liked to set up shop. You'd recalled the Weasley twins talking about it once, having managed to wrangle it out of Mundungus Fletcher at some point in an attempt to procure some ingredients for their Skiving Snackboxes.

Your chest heaved a little as you thought of Fred— his ill-timed jokes and contagious smirk that had everyone laughing. Yet another person who'd died in the name of peace, that thought only spurred you on, though. Mattheo was still missing, as far as you were concerned, and you'd already come so far.

Wordlessly, you scanned a few of the vendors; a young witch with black teeth selling human fingernails, another selling jewellery you were certain was either cursed or stolen. Or both.

Until finally you spotted him, sitting on an old soap box with his goods stocked messily inside an open suitcase. Mick Tolliver looked exactly like the kind of man who traded secrets for sickles and would never think twice about it.

He sat slouched behind a warped, half-collapsed stall that seemed to have grown out of the alley itself, the wooden frame rotted and sagging under the weight of cursed trinkets and unlabelled jars. The tarp hanging from the roof of the stall was threadbare and looked more like old clothes, sewn together to create a makeshift canopy.

His clothes were greasy too, and like the stall, had many patches of mismatched material sewn over holes, like he'd tried to preserve them for as long as possible. He had the posture of someone who'd once been taller, but he was thin, sullen even, as if he'd lost a lot of weight quickly and his body hadn't been able to stay upright.

A wiry beard hung from his chin in uneven tufts, stained yellow near his mouth from years of smoking, and it was evident by the smell that lingered around him, he wasn't fond of washing either. His eyes, though— his eyes were sharp. Beady and watchful, flickering over you like one of his cursed items, he was already tallying a price for.

"Lookin' for something specific, sweetheart?" he drawled, voice low and oily, "Or has something caught your fancy?" He grinned, and you wished he hadn't. His teeth were yellow, and even from a distance, you could see bits of food stuck in them.

You raised an eyebrow and scoffed, face soured with disgust, but determined not to leave his stall without information.

"I can assure you nothing I'm seeing takes my fancy." You retorted sharply, hand grasping onto your wand tightly, still hidden up your sleeve and at the ready in case he tried anything.

His grin dropped, and his eyes dragged up and down your body. You felt sick just looking at him.

"What're you doing down here then, my sweets. Not exactly Knockturn material, are you?" He drawled, straightening up ever so slightly. His beady eyes narrowed as he tilted his head, "You an Auror? ‘Cause I swear everything I’m sellin’ is legit this time!"

You ignored the pet name and the blatant lie about his stock, despite how much you wanted to hex him into the middle of next week.

"I was looking for information, actually." You cleared your throat, stepping closer, "Heard you're an expert in that kind of thing, stuff not everyone knows."

His sickening grin returned once more, and he relaxed, a chuckle escaping him like you'd just told a joke. Your face remained serious, focused. Grimacing slightly as his laughter turned into coughs, his hand dipped into his pocket to produce an even filthier rag that he coughed into.

"Well, well, well, lovely... then you've come to the right place," he wheezed, suddenly intrigued, "what 'dya wanna know? It'll cost you, though, mind."

Your lips parted, ready to ask him what exactly he knew about Mattheo when his fist thumped down on the makeshift counter of his stall, eyes narrowed once more.

"Ah-ah-ah. Cough up, first. Then you get your answers," he demanded sharply. "Too many people givin' me the run around, not paying up when I tell them what they want to know. Company policy, you see." he grinned, sleazy and pleased with himself.

You sighed, reaching into your pocket with your free hand, then slapped five galleons down onto his table. But before he could reach out and take the gold coins, you grasped them tightly in your hand.

“Ah-ah-ah. Information first,” you said coolly, tightening your grip on the coins. “Gotta check if what you know’s worth it. Personal policy, you see.”

You weren't sure where the sudden bravery came from, calling the shots in Knockturn Alley was hardly what you'd expected when you'd wandered in. However, you were desperate, and this place had your skin crawling from the moment you entered.

He laughed once more, coughed a few times too, then sat back against the wall. "Now... I like you," he rasped, wagging a filthy finger in your face. "So what are you after? Cheating boyfriend? Some bloke not answering your owl? I can be real convincing, for the right price."

Your head shook, "Mattheo Riddle. What do you know about him?" You questioned directly.

Immediately, Tolliver's face paled— his sleaziness cut dead as his finger dropped limply. He no longer had that seedy look about him, instead, it was replaced by something else. Fear.

"Don't know nuffin about nuffin." He answered quickly, arms folding over. "And anyone who says otherwise is a bleedin' liar."

Your head tilted, eyes narrowed. You knew he was lying; no one became that defensive if they had nothing to hide.

"Come on now, Mick. I know you know something," you pressed, reaching into your pocket once more, "I'll make it worth it," you added another three galleons next to the pile.

That seemed to entice him slightly. His head twisted as his eyes flickered between you and the money, like he was on the fence. Sighing frustratedly, you reached down into your pocket and pulled out another two galleons, slamming them down for effect.

That seemed to do the trick.

"Alright, fine!" he grunted, leaning forward and sparing a glance up and down the street, "s'long as you don't tell anyone, I told ya."

"Deal. Now what do you know?"

He nodded again and glanced around, like he was trying to reassure himself.

"He's not dead, not like the rumours are sayin'." He whispered, "But he needed to disappear for a bit. Get away from it all."

Your pulse thudded quicker, "Disappear? Why?"

Mick scratched at his beard nervously, leaning closer again like the shadows might be listening. “All I know is, he was involved with something dark. Not just Knockturn-deep—worse. Real old stuff. Ancient magic. Blood debts. Curses that don’t leave a mark.”

You chewed your lip, a million thoughts racing in your mind. You'd read about Blood Magic before, briefly, whilst studying for your Ancient Ruins N.E.W.T.S. It was ancient magic, belonging to another world, long before this one. Before Hogwarts for sure, and even older than wand magic itself. Whatever it was, you knew it was serious.

You frowned, "Blood Magic? I thought that stuff had died out years ago. Way back in Merlin's time?"

He shook his head grimly, "There are some kinds of magic that don't go away, no matter how hard you try." He shifted again, glanced around at the other vendors and shivered. "Word is, he’s got people after him now. Not Aurors. No. Not even hit wizards. People who don’t show up on any bloody registry, if you catch my drift."

You blinked, a cold sensation trickling up your spine. "Well, where is he now?" You questioned, your nerves shot and begging to show. You pushed the feeling down again.

"I dunno. But if I were him, I'd be long gone. Somewhere far away and heavily warded. Keep them away for as long as I could."

His eyes narrowed, the greasy grin flickering back. “You close to him, sweetheart? Because if you are… You might want to stay out of it. Fellas like that? They don’t come back clean, that's for sure.”

Summoning your last ounce of courage, you shook your head, "Concerned party is all."

Tolliver hummed skeptically, as if he didn't quite believe you. And you didn't blame him, you hardly believed yourself.

"How'd you know all this, then?" you questioned, shooting your own skittish glance up and down the street, like suddenly you could feel the weight of more eyes fixed on you. Watching.

Mick only smirked smugly, crooked and not at all comforting like Albion's smile. "Ah, now that'd be telling, wouldn't it?"

One of his bony hands reached out to grasp at the galleons, instinctively, you pulled back, watching him bundle them away inside a ragged, cloth bag. He hummed to himself as he did it, tucking them away in an inside pocket in the lining of his coat.

"You didn't hear none of this from me." He spoke, standing hurriedly and closing over the suitcase that held his merchandise. "Word of warning, sweets. If he's alive, and you go sniffin' around... they'll come for you, too. Best give up on him now, your boyfriend's neck-deep in something no one crawls out of alive."

Before you could say another word, he disapparated with a loud crack that made you flinch. Mick Tolliver was gone, leaving you alone to stare at the ruined stall—and his warning lingering in the air.

 He exhaled softly, eyes drifting to the gardens beyond the window, taking in the rows of hyacinths and peonies which were carefully pruned and cared for by the estate gardeners. His late wife had loved the acres of land surrounding the property, often accompanying her on afternoon strolls around the gardens when his schedule allowed. The ghost of a smile graced his lips at the memory, now just as distant as the day that she died. 

 His thoughts ebbed as the house around him began to bustle, from the kitchens came the faint clatter of pots and the low hum of conversation, and beyond the window the stable boys moved like clockwork figures across the yard. His pipe rested beside the tea tray, untouched. Though snuff had grown fashionable, Lord Albury preferred the older ways, he was traditional in that sense. Slowly he reached for his cup, thoughts returning to more pressing matters. With the rise in commerce, his land’s profits would easily cover his daughter’s dowry— a small reassurance amid his growing unease. 

“—Pardon me, your Lordship,” a gruff voice interrupted before he could take a sip of the warm liquid, “Your daughter is ready for you as you requested.” 

Lord Albury’s head turned towards the doorway, placing the cup back upon its saucer, and turned to where his steward stood promptly waiting instruction. Clad in his typical uniform, a thick woollen frock coat, Cyril stood as straight as the grandfather clock beside him. 

Cyril was an older gentleman with wise, hardened eyes and thinning hair. He had served the Albury Estate for years— almost as long as the clock had perched in this very drawing room. By now the steward was part of the furniture, and without him to watch over the other staff, the Lord would surely struggle to manage his affairs. 

“Very well,” he nodded, beckoning passively with his free hand, “That will be all, Cyril.” 

The steward bowed wordlessly and disappeared for a moment, leaving the Lord alone to compose himself for the conversation he was about to have. His daughter— beautiful and stubborn like her mother— would soon be promised to the son of a neighbouring Earl. It was a match that would ensure his grandchildren would live bountiful lives, much grander than what he was able to provide his own daughter with. 

You appeared not a moment later, poised and proper, the faintest trace of apprehension on your features as you entered the room. Curtseying lightly your hands clasped together, surveying your father with your full attention before you spoke. 

“You wished to see me, Father?” you spoke softly, hesitant. Large doe eyes glimmering with curiosity, naivety, and above all else, that beautiful shade that reminded him so much of your mother. 

“Sit, my dear,” he beckoned, gesturing towards a nearby armchair that faced him, “There is a matter I’ve been meaning to discuss.” He adjusted in his chair, a hand reaching for his tobacco pipe leisurely. 

You obliged his request, crossing the room hastily and perching on the very edge of the cushion. You knew your father rarely wasted his words, and by the tone of voice you knew not to let his patience wear thin. 

He took his time, carefully packing the bowl of his pipe, his gaze trained on the tobacco with little regard for your fidgeting. Only when he sat back in his chair did he exhale, a steady puff of smoke curling into the air before he began

“You are to be married,” he began, folding the newspaper neatly upon his lap with one hand. “The arrangement has been settled with Lord Harcourt. His son, Frederick, is a fine young man. A future Earl— respectable, well-bred. The match will secure our family’s place for generations.”

He fixed you with an expectant look, taking another draw from his pipe as you cycled through your emotions hastily. There was confusion, anger, frustration, and eventually, begrudging acceptance. 

You were going to be married, and that was seemingly that. 

The silence loomed in the drawing room as you fought to keep your lips pressed in a thin line, careful not to let your feelings get the better of you. 

You were well aware this day would come, that one day you would assume the role of dutiful wife to an Earl or Viscount with enough money to spare. You’d been raised for this, to be proper and dignified. To elevate your social standing at every opportunity. You’d made your peace with it long ago, but aged just twenty-two you had barely begun your life. 

You didn’t want to settle down and get married just yet, not when the world beyond the walls of your estate still felt so vast. But propriety had its own pull, and your father’s word was law. 

“I see,” you murmured, your throat constricting painfully. “And when shall I meet… Frederick?” You swallowed the lump in your oesophagus, forcing out his name with as much politeness as you could muster— he was to be your husband, after all. 

“Within the fortnight,” he replied calmly, choosing to ignore the hoarseness in your tone. “Preparations for your journey will begin at once.” 

You nodded, imagining what kind of a man Frederick might be, you hoped he was handsome and fair, at least. If you were to be shackled to another in such extremity then you prayed he would be honourable, valiant. Kind. 

Lord Albury was quiet, a pleased smile on his face as he unfolded the paper in his lap, his pipe still pressed between his lips. You surveyed him silently, your father, the Lord. His rounded belly and full cheeks, every inch the noble even as he sat in his drawing room parlour. 

As he adjusted in his chair, you caught a glimpse of his paper. The bold lettering that highlighted the crime and justice segment, stark against the parchment. 

‘Stand and Deliver— Beware the Gentlemen of the Road!’

You’d overheard whispered tales amongst the staff, of the dangers that lurked just beyond the four walls of your fathers land. A curious young thing you were, with so much to learn and much more to be frightened of. Yet now you weren’t frightened, the things you felt were far more akin to allure. 

“And what of the robberies on the western roads?” You asked before you could stop yourself, eyes fixed on the front pages bold lettering. 

You’d heard enough in passing, about carts of grains and other produce from your father’s estate that had been stolen. Intercepted by forces unknown. Your natural curiosity piqued by the headlines. 

Your father looked up sharply, as though surprised you’d taken notice. “A matter for the constables, nothing more,” he said with brisk finality. “You are not to concern yourself with such things.”

“But, if I’m to travel to Harcourt Hall—” 

“You will be accompanied by my men, and by the Harcourts’ escort once you cross the county border. There is no cause for alarm.” Lord Albury interjected solemnly, peering over his paper to hazard a silencing glance towards you. 

Dejectedly, you nodded, though the uneasy feeling remained— a quiet knot that coiled deep in your chest, laying dormant and ready to trouble your sleep. 

Your father leaned back in his chair once more, as though dismissing the thought entirely. “Worry is unbecoming, my dear. Focus on your engagement, your future. That is all I ask.” An earnest edge to his voice as he surveyed your prying eyes. 

“Yes, Father,” you replied gravely, tearing your gaze away from the broadsheet and towards the windowpanes.

 Outside, the wind rattled faintly, stirring the branches of the elms far back in the garden. You watched them passively, thinking not of your future husband but of the long, winding roads that awaited you— and of the nameless men who stowed away in the dark, just waiting for the right moment to strike.