#ur-local-wizard

Angry sex with Mattheo was something you were used to, especially after he lost a quidditch game. Everyone knew he had a temper, and even as his girlfriend, you were not immune to it. But he’s never been so hurtful. Not like this. 

The physical part of it was good, as per usual, but his words struck a deeper chord than normal. The names he called you, the blatant disregard for your feelings, the way his touch felt oppressive instead of loving – it was strange, and honestly overwhelming. 

So that’s how you got here, curled up in the fetal position just outside the quidditch locker room. You barely noticed the muffled sound of footsteps approaching you on the grass. Blinking back more tears, you look up, not expecting to see the Gryffindor Cormac McLaggen of all people. He was one of many on the long list of people Mattheo hated most, and you knew that if your boyfriend saw him of all people in his current tempered state, someone would end up in the hospital wing. 

“You okay?” Cormac asked, crouching in front of you. His tone was softer than you would expect, laced with nothing short of concern and pity. He reached out, and you flinched as his hand brushed your arm. “You’re freezing. Come, let’s get you inside. I don’t want you to contract hypothermia.” 

The warmth of his hand sent a wave of guilt through you, and the combination of your confusion and his touch made you flinch away. He’s right – it’s so cold your fingers are going numb. You weren’t sure if it was the weight of your emotions, your exhaustion, or the sheer cold, but you felt your defenses crumble, allowing him to pull you up and off the ground.

Then the locker room door opened. 

Out walked Mattheo, his presence looming over you like a shadow. His hair was disheveled, his jaw set like stone. His gaze flicked between you and Cormac, his eyes burning with fury. 

“What the fuck is going on here?” He snapped, his voice low and full of nothing but rage and resentment. You opened your mouth to speak, but he roughly grabbed your wrist and pulled you to his side, effectively cutting you off. Your stomach churned, and the emotions swirling inside your gut made you want to puke. 

“You think this is okay?” He scolded you, his gaze narrowing into a glare. “The hell are you doing with this piece of shit?” He motioned to Cormac, scoffing. “And you, what are you doing with my girlfriend?” 

“Mattheo, stop-” Your voice trembled as you began to talk, but the bitter laugh that escaped his lips cut you off. 

  “Don’t even try to explain,” he sneered, his grip so tightening so much it may leave a bruise. His expression was still angry, but something seemed off. Beneath the anger in his eyes, you saw a flicker of something else – something raw. Afraid, maybe. “I leave for five fucking minutes and come back to find you cozying up with Cormac fucking McLaggen.” 

His words hit harder than expected, making the nausea in your stomach only grow stronger. “You’re being ridiculous,” you said, voice quiet but filled with hurt. You pressed your lips together and fought the urge to cry again. 

“Ridiculous? You don’t get to decide that after this little stunt you just pulled.” 

Cormac crossed his arms over his chest, his expression solemn. “Maybe if you treated her better and paid attention to her obvious distress, she wouldn’t be crying out here in the cold,” he retorted. 

The room seemed to freeze at his words. Mattheo’s head snapped toward Cormac, his eyes dark and burning. The tension in the air was suffocating, a storm brewing just beneath the surface.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Mattheo hissed.

“I know enough,” Cormac shot back, unwavering. “I know she shouldn’t be out here like this. She could get sick!”  

Mattheo’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like his teeth could grind together into dust. For a moment, it looked like he was going to punch Cormac – he certainly wanted to – and the suspense made you even dizzier than before. But instead, he turned his glare back to you. “Get up. Let’s go.” It wasn’t a question, and you could tell by the tone of his voice it was more of an ultimatum. Stay here, and you would lose him. 

You hesitated, jaw opening and closing, unsure what to say. You didn’t want to fight. Not again. Not when your body already ached from more than just the physicality of what had just conspired in the locker room. So, even after all the hurt he’s caused, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave him. He just looked so betrayed, so afraid. 

“Okay,” you conceded, voice barely a whisper. Cormac scoffed, but you didn’t dare look his way as your boyfriend grabbed your wrist again and led you away, his footsteps crushing the grass beneath his feet. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm – as if he was afraid that if he let go, you’d disappear. 

The journey was silent as he dragged you to an empty corridor. The moment the two of you were alone, he spun to face you, his chest rising and falling rapidly with labored breaths. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said. 

“Do what?” You asked, brows furrowing.

His fingers twitched at his sides, as if he was fighting the urge to reach for you. “Sitting with him. Letting him touch you. Letting him look at you like – like that.”

You stared at him, disbelief bubbling up past the lingering hurt. “Mattheo, do you even hear yourself? I was sitting there because of you. Because of what you did.”

He looked shocked, but that quickly faded as he realized what you were talking about. He lowered his eyes to the ground, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed his shame. He looked like he wanted to argue, to push back like he always did in situations like this, but something in his expression told you he knew he would finally lose you if he did. For the first time, he looked unsure. 

“Do you even care that you hurt me?” You asked, voice softer now, but still full of lingering hurt. In response, his whole body tensed. A long silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Then, barely above a whisper, so low you almost missed it, he muttered, “I do.”

It wasn’t an apology – not yet. But you knew it was as close as you were going to get for now. 

Ty again for this request!! I had sm fun writing it! Sorry it took me so long to write, life and school is insane rn

taglist: @mattyriddlesbitch @sturniolover13 @thereeallink @voidangxls

Divination has never been your favorite class. Not because you’re bad at it, you’re actually quite an accomplished student, but because your desk partner was a nuisance.

Mattheo Riddle was the epitome of chaos. And the fact that nobody took Trelawney’s class seriously definitely didn’t help. He wouldn’t even show up half of the time. But when he did, he barely worked. He would just be scribbling in that notebook of his – the one he’s so protective of. “What’s in that notebook? It looks so beat up,” you asked once, leaning forward to get a better look. He immediately snapped the pages shut, “none of your business,” he told you. You haven’t mentioned it since.

But strangely enough, he’s been coming to class pretty consistently this past week. Not like he pays attention, though. And today was no different. His nose was stuck in his notebook, his hand gripping a pencil tight as he scribbled madly. He rarely looked up, but when he did, it was at you. 

You brushed it off, however, telling yourself that he's just making sure you're not trying to sneak another peak at whatever it is he's so wrapped up in. Why would he be looking at you anyway? Or maybe you had something in your teeth.

By the time class ended, Mattheo had already rushed out. But strangely enough, he forgot his notebook. That was a first. He usually never goes anywhere without it. So, being the good person you are, you stuffed it in your bag and walked out the door – deciding that you would give it to him when you see him next. 

The day passed by, and Mattheo was nowhere to be seen. Classes finally ended, and you strolled the halls looking for the Slytherin. After half an hour of looking, you gave up, deciding to wander the halls aimlessly. However, you were broken out of your reverie when you crashed into someone. You stumbled back, apologizing profusely. 

“Shit- sorry,” a deep voice says. It had a hint of an Italian accent – was it Theo? 

You looked up, and sure enough, your hunch was right. The tall European stood in front of you, looking down at the books that fell from your bag. Among them was Mattheo’s notebook. And it fell open to a page full of drawings, one of which caught your attention. It was an eye, drawn in exquisite detail. It was beautiful; the shading, delicate pencil strokes, the way he somehow was able to capture such raw emotion in such a little piece of art. It was truly mesmerizing. 

You quickly dropped down and began to pick up the books sprawled out on the floor, putting Mattheo’s notebook away first. He never let you see what was inside, so you might as well try not to let Theo look at it any longer. 

“Was… that your eye?” Theo asked, startling you. You didn’t even realize it was yours. All you could focus on was the sheer talent radiating from the page. You stood back up, slinging the bag back over your shoulder. 

“I don’t know,” you admitted. Deciding to change the subject, you asked, “Anyway, sorry for bumping into you.” 

“It’s quite alright, bella. You didn’t get hurt, did you?”

“No, no. I’m perfectly okay. Um… have you seen Mattheo? He left something of his in class,” you questioned.

“Left something in class? Are you sure you’re alright, y/n? The man never attends lectures. You should know that,” he chided, but the look on his face was one of concern.

“Okay, well, forget I said anything,” you blurted. And with that, you hurried away to your dorm, your quick footsteps ringing off the stone floors – a storm of mortification and curiosity warring within you. 

This was an extremely short fic, but I hope you enjoyed it!! Let me know what you think! And as always, let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

Reader's POV:

Slamming the door behind yourself, you stumbled into your dorm – bag sliding off your shoulders and falling to the floor. Grabbing Mattheo’s notebook, you walked to your bed and laid down, staring at the pages in your hands. After a little contemplation, you decided to open it. 

You were greeted with a compilation of sketches. Things like nature scenes, ornate architecture, people, etc. Some of the drawings were of things you recognize, some of things you didn’t. But what really caught your attention is the same drawing from earlier.

Upon closer inspection, you realized that Theo was right. It really was your eye. But not how you’re used to seeing it in the mirror. He captured more emotion, more life than what you normally notice. It was breathtaking… and a little intimidating; solely because of the amount of time and effort he must have put into all this. 

As you flipped through the notebook, the drawings progressed from objects to anatomy. It seemed to all be of a girl – side profiles, views from behind her, different individual features. For example, there’s a drawing of a girl in a library, the viewer facing her back. She’s reaching for a book high on a shelf. Her tote bag caught your eye, it was full of what looked like books and stationary. On the front was an intricate design of a rose.

You looked up, and the exact tote bag is hanging on a coat rack by the door. A quiet gasp escaped your lips, and you snapped the book shut. “Why is Mattheo drawing me of all people? How is he getting all these details about me in the first place?” You ask yourself, staring at the sketchbook in front of you. 

You stand up and slip some shoes on, grabbing the book again as you hurry out of your dorm. Time to get to the bottom of whatever the hell this is.

Mattheo’s POV:

Mattheo laid on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was spinning – all he could think about was her. Her annoying cheerfulness, the way her smile lights up her face. It was infuriating; the way she burrowed herself into his thoughts so effortlessly, despite his best efforts to ignore her. But he just couldn’t help falling for her – couldn’t resist the magnetic pull she had on him. And the worst part? He hasn't told anyone. 

Deciding he’s had enough of sulking, Mattheo sat up and walked to his desk. Sketching her always helps to clear his mind. As he opened his bag, reaching in for his sketchbook, he discovered it wasn’t there. Panicking, he flipped it over, dumping out its contents, and still the sketchbook was nowhere to be seen. Searching for it, he slammed open every drawer he could find. Desk drawers, dresser drawers, his sock drawer at the bottom of his wardrobe; nothing was left unturned. The boy even looked under his bed. 

Still, it was absolutely nowhere.

A knock sounded on his dorm door, and his head snapped up in response. Standing up, he slowly approached it. His heart pounded so fast he could swear he heard the blood rushing through his veins. 

All he could think was, “Where's my sketchbook? Who the hell is at my door? Fuck- I’m shaking.” 

He cast one last look at his ruined bedroom before opening the door with trembling hands. Standing in the hallway, eyes wide with fear, was Y/n. He ran a hand through his messy hair, suddenly self-conscious. “Why is she here? Is she okay? She looks terrified… Am I the one scaring her?” His thoughts were jumbled, and he stared at her with concern for a few moments before stepping aside, holding the door open. 

“Please, come in. Sorry, my room is a mess… I lost something,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft with her. He was afraid of scaring her more. But as she passed him, he saw his sketchbook in her hands. Shit.

Hope you liked it!! As always, tell me if you want to be added to the tag list, and ty to everyone for all the amazing support! You have no idea how amazing it feels <3

Taglist: @mattyriddlesbitch

Mattheo had already finished his classes for today. He was doing alright grade-wise, even though college, nor school in general, wasn’t exactly his strong suit. His father forced him to take up the next level of schooling, and as much as Mattheo would’ve rather gone to art school, his father would be even more pissed about that than him not going to college at all. So, he picked a happy medium: visual communications. It was creative enough to keep him sane and relatively happy, yet practical enough to keep his father’s lectures over the phone away.

Normally, he would’ve been in his dorm by now, sketching while half-asleep, listening to the music blasting from his headphones. But something pulled at him as he walked past the outdoor courts. The rhythmic thump, thump, thump, of a basketball against concrete and the swish it made as it slid through the net caught his attention. Curious, he turned his head, and stopped in his tracks. 

There you were, alone. The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over everything, causing the sheen of sweat that had formed on your skin to shine as you pivoted, dribbled, and made another shot. The ball easily slipped through the hoop once again. Your movements were fluid, unhurried, as if you didn’t have to think about any of it, and you looked good doing it. Distractingly so.

He walked closer, moving to the basketball court. Leaning against the fence, he watched you practice longer than he probably should have. You picked up the ball from your previous shot, crossed the court to the three-pointer line, and made another shot like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Damn,” he murmured to himself. But you must’ve heard, because you turned, and walked over to him once you saw him. “You say something?”

He blinked, surprised. But his usual cocky grin spread across his lips. “Just admiring the form.” 

You raised your brows. “Didn’t know my practice was a spectator sport.”

He laughs. “Didn’t know we had someone out here giving Shaq a run for his money.”

A laugh left your lips, but your stance remained somewhat guarded – arms crossed across your chest, weight all on one hip. “Do you play, or just watch from the sidelines and look pretty?” 

He grinned, setting his keys down onto the nearest bench and walked fully onto the court. “You think I’m pretty?” he asked, holding his hand out. “Mattheo.”

“I know who you are,” you said, taking his hand and introducing yourself. “You’re the guy who flipped a table at intramurals early this semester.” 

“That was an accident,” he retorted. You gave him a sharp look. “Alright, a passionate accident.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He couldn’t help but grin, his tone mischievous when he spoke. “Want to see if I’ve improved from my rage quitting days?”

You laughed, handing him a ball. “Are you challenging me?”

“Unless you’re scared,” he countered, bouncing the ball once. 

You scoffed, but a smile crept onto your lips. “Fine. First to five?” 

“Winner gets bragging rights,” he agreed, stepping back to the center of the court. “And the loser buys us smoothies.”

You caught the ball when he passed it to you. “I’m not paying for anything.” 

That was the last time he smiled for the next ten minutes. He went in cocky, but you read him like a book, blocking every move he made and side-stepping him when he attempted to steal the ball. 1-0. 2-0. Then he made a shot, and when you ran to grab the ball as it landed, your shoulder bumped him so hard that he lost his footing, nearly falling over. That small stumble cost him yet another point. 

By 5-1, he was bent over, hands on his knees, panting. You, on the other hand, simply grabbed your water bottle and took a sip. 

“Holy shit,” he gasped. “You really don’t hold back, huh?” 

“Anything for a free smoothie,” you half-joked, shrugging. When he chuckled and stood back up, you put the bottle down. “But on a serious note, my scholarship doesn’t just keep itself.” 

His gaze was appreciative then, as if he saw you in a whole different light. However, it wasn’t any less admiring. “You’re on the team?” 

You nodded, grinning. 

“Could’ve led with that,” he grumbled. 

“And miss the chance to humble your cocky ass? Never.” You hit him playfully on the shoulder.

He huffed a laugh, dragging his hand through his curls. “You’re evil.” 

“Sure. But you have to admit it was fun.” 

There was a pause then, charged and lingering. He stepped closer, and you could hear the distant thump of the ball as it bounced across the court, forgotten. “Do you always practice alone?” His voice was softer now. 

You shrugged in response. “Hard to find anyone willing to. Or if they are, we can never agree on a time.” 

He sighed. “Well, clearly this solo practice is working. Your skill is impressive. Honestly, I think it’s hot.” 

You raised a brow, but when you spoke, your tone held no bite. “You think losing to me is hot?” 

“No,” he said, biting back a boyish grin, “I think you kicking my ass while looking as incredible as you do is hot.” 

That earned him a small, surprised laugh, and he filed that sound away as a victory. It was better than winning, if he was honest with himself. 

“I’ll give you a rematch,” you said, turning to grab your stuff. “But only if you promise to try not to embarrass yourself again.”

“Oh sweetheart,” he said, still watching you like you were the center of the universe. “I promise.”

Ty for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!! Feedback is appreciated, and comments/reblogs mean the world <3

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