#viktor krum

ˋ°•*⁀➷ navigation // ꩜ smut, ❀ fluff, 𖤓 angsty/angry, 𖤐 funny, ♡ my fave!

harry potter neville longbottom oliver wood seamus finnigan cedric diggory viktor krum

weasleys:

ron weasley george weasley fred weasley charlie weasley percy weasley bill weasley

slytherin boys:

draco malfoy mattheo riddle

other:

like oliver and percy weren't exactly hiding anything, but with all the drama and the war going on, they haven't been boasting about it either — there's more important things to deal with, and at some point, they've been together for so long they forget to tell people.

percy casually let it slip that he and oliver were dating at the triwizard tournament/yule ball, you know, to make small talk and connect with the world's most famous seeker. and yeah krum's heard oliver's name float around since then, but his basis for who oliver is is percy weasley's boyfriend.

Viktor Krum x English witch reader

Fluff wrapped in pretend relationship and Bulgurian culture and fluffing fluff

⸻

The first time you saw Viktor Krum, he was striding into the Great Hall like someone out of a storybook—broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, and every bit the Triwizard Champion Hogwarts students whispered about.

You weren’t one of the whisperers. You were far too busy trying not to drop your goblet as Durmstrang’s delegation swept past. Still, you noticed him.

What surprised you wasn’t the fame or the Quidditch glory—it was the way, later that evening, you caught him in the courtyard away from the crowds, looking a little… lost.

You’d been there to avoid the excitement too, hiding with a stolen meat pie from the feast. When you noticed him glancing at you, you’d shrugged and offered half.

“Is… good,” he’d said after the first bite, nodding like you’d given him something priceless. His accent was thick, his words few, but you found him easier to talk to than half the boys in your own House.

From then on, it was small moments—sitting together in the library when his English homework gave him headaches, laughing quietly in the stands before the first task, trading pockets of silence that never felt awkward.

The night after the Third Task, when everything at Hogwarts seemed darker, you’d found him on the same courtyard bench. You didn’t speak much—just sat beside him until the dawn bled through the sky. He’d said goodbye that morning with a rare, almost shy smile.

A week later, a letter arrived by owl.

You are the only person there I miss, it read in careful, deliberate handwriting. If I send a letter each week, you will answer?

You had answered before you even finished reading.

⸻

The letters became habit.

Every Sunday without fail, an envelope with his tidy, slightly slanted script would appear at breakfast. Sometimes they were short—a few lines about his training, the weather in Bulgaria, the antics of his owl. Sometimes they were long, sprawling pages where his formality cracked open into dry humor and unexpected warmth.

You wrote back with your own life: exams, strange Hogwarts gossip, how your new kitten had knocked over an entire stack of textbooks.

He wrote about snow in the mountains and the summer heat along the Black Sea. You wrote about late-night Astronomy lessons and your broom breaking mid-flight.

When you teased him about being the most dedicated pen pal you’d ever had, he’d written back

I am dedicated only to people who are worth it.

⸻

Years passed. You didn’t see him in person again, but you knew the rhythm of his life through paper and ink. His handwriting grew a little steadier. His English grew smoother. Yours grew dotted with little Bulgarian words he’d taught you.

You didn’t realize how much the letters meant until one arrived with three short lines

Y/n. Festival is in July. Come.

You didn’t even think before you wrote your answer.

Of course.

⸻

Bulgaria in July smelled like ripe peaches and sea air.

You stepped off the Portkey into the middle of a bustling cobblestoned square, blinking against the flood of color and noise. Vendors shouted over one another in rapid Bulgarian, ribbons and paper lanterns swayed overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a fiddler played a bright, looping tune that made your foot want to tap.

You barely had time to take it in before a familiar shadow blocked the sun.

“Y/N.”

Viktor’s voice was exactly the same as you remembered—low, a little rough, like he’d been speaking to mountains all his life. He looked… the same, too, and somehow different. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, hair a touch longer and brushing his ears. But his eyes lit up the same way they had that first year at Hogwarts when you’d handed him half a stolen pie.

“You cut your hair,” you blurted, because your brain decided that was more urgent than Hello, how are you?

He glanced at the too-short ends, shrugged. “It vas hot.”

You laughed, the awkwardness melting as he pulled you into a surprisingly careful hug, his palm resting between your shoulder blades. The smell of warm wool and faint woodsmoke clung to him.

“I vill take your bag,” he said, already lifting it before you could protest.

You followed him through winding streets toward his family home—a sprawling, sun-bleached house with grapevines curling along the fence and a wooden bench painted bright blue. Before you could even reach the front door, it swung open.

Out poured relatives. So many relatives.

They spoke in a tumble of Bulgarian, voices overlapping as they embraced Viktor, kissed his cheeks, and—oh—looked you up and down like you were an exotic bird that had landed in their garden.

A round, silver-haired woman grabbed your hand, beaming. “You are… Y/N?” she asked in accented English.

“Yes—”

“Very pretty,” she announced, patting your cheek. She turned to Viktor, rattling off something that made the others chuckle knowingly.

You caught exactly one word: nevesta. Bride.

Viktor cleared his throat, glaring at someone over your shoulder. “Inside,” he muttered, steering you toward the door like you were a VIP guest and the press was closing in.

The kitchen smelled like heaven—fresh bread, roasted peppers, something sweet cooling on the counter. But before you could even take a seat, another woman in a bright floral scarf appeared with a tall, smiling man.

“This is my neighbor’s niece,” she said brightly. “A very good girl, yes? She—”

“—is not interested,” Viktor interrupted flatly.

The room went very still. The niece’s smile faltered. The older woman’s eyebrows shot up.

You tried not to laugh at the pure, smoldering no in Viktor’s expression.

By the time you were upstairs in the guest room, you’d counted three more introductions to “very good girls” and one pointed comment about how Viktor was “not getting any younger.”

He shut the door behind you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This,” he said, “is vhy I wrote to you.”

You tilted your head. “Because I’m the only one immune to your charm?”

“No.” He dropped into the chair by the window, meeting your eyes. “Because I need a girlfriend.”

“You saw today,” he said at last. After long pause.

“Mm-hm.” You folded your arms. “All the eligible bachelorettes of Bulgaria throwing themselves at your feet. Tragic.”

He shot you a dry look, but didn’t deny it. “It has been this vay for… too long. Every summer festival, every family gathering. If I say no, they think I am shy. If I do not answer, they think I am… mysterious. If I—” He cut himself off, scowling slightly. “It is… exhausting.”

“So what’s your master plan?” you asked, leaning against the railing beside him.

His eyes flicked to yours, then away, like he wasn’t sure how you’d take it. “If I am… taken… they vill stop.”

It took you a second. “Taken. As in… you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”

“Yes.” He said it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. “Only for this summer. To make them… leave me alone.”

You widened your eyes in mock horror. “Wait. Is this the only reason you invited me? I am hurt, Viktor.”

“No!” He straightened, suddenly alarmed. “I vanted to see you. This—this is only… a bonus. A necessary—”

“A necessary fake romance to keep Aunt Dobrina from marrying you off to her neighbor’s niece?” you cut in, smirking.

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “Exactly.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Hmm. And what’s in it for me? Do I at least get food out of this arrangement? Because your grandmother’s banitsa could make me do questionable things.”

Viktor huffed a laugh, low and warm. “You vill eat until you cannot move. And I vill… owe you.”

“Dangerous words, Krum.” You bumped your shoulder into his. “Alright. I’m in.”

He exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Thank you.”

You told yourself the sudden flutter in your chest was just from the summer air and the way the fireflies lit the edges of his hair—not from the faint smile he gave you then, the kind that wasn’t for show, the kind you remembered from years ago.

It was pretend. Just for the summer.

You were sure of it.

Almost.

⸻

The next morning began with food.

Viktor’s grandmother insisted.

You were barely seated before she pressed a steaming plate of banitsa in front of you, the flaky pastry stuffed with salty cheese and spinach. Beside it, she poured you a glass of boza—a sweet, thick drink the color of caramel that you’d never tried before.

“It is breakfast,” she declared firmly.

Viktor, seated across from you, smirked over his own glass. “She vill feed you until you cannot move.”

“I’m okay with that,” you said, biting into the banitsa and nearly groaning out loud.

By the time you were finished, you were stuffed but happy, and his grandmother was already fussing with your hair.

“For festival,” she explained, her weathered hands surprisingly gentle as she wove small braids into your hair, pulling them back and fastening them with a bright ribbon the color of pomegranates. “Pretty girl must look like pretty girl.”

She sent you upstairs to change into a dress from her cedar chest—a long, flowing thing of cream cotton embroidered with red and gold flowers. You couldn’t help smoothing your hands over the fabric, wondering how many summers it had danced through before this one.

When you came down the stairs, Viktor looked up from lacing his boots—and stilled.

“It suits you,” he said simply. His voice was calm, but there was a flicker in his eyes that made your stomach feel like it had just missed a step.

⸻

The town square was even livelier than yesterday. Stalls lined the cobblestones, piled high with jewel-bright jars of honey, strings of dried peppers, painted ceramics, and plump peaches still warm from the sun. Folk musicians played on a raised wooden platform, their music weaving through the air like ribbons.

Viktor walked beside you, a steady presence, his hand resting lightly at your back. You told yourself it was part of the act—but he didn’t move it, even when you stopped to admire a display of woven belts.

A group of older women nearby whispered behind their hands, their eyes darting between you and Viktor. You caught the word nevesta again and bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

Viktor noticed. “What?”

“They’re already planning our wedding,” you teased under your breath.

His lips twitched, but he said nothing, simply bought you a small jar of honey and pressed it into your hands. “For later,” he said.

⸻

Around midday, you were swept—quite literally—into a circle of dancers. A laughing cousin of Viktor’s pulled you into the ring, where people stamped and spun to the bright, fast music.

“Follow me!” the cousin shouted, demonstrating the steps: three to the right, one back, kick, repeat.

You stumbled the first few times, but soon the rhythm caught you. Viktor joined in, his long legs making the steps look effortless, and when his hand found yours in the chain of dancers, his grip was warm and sure.

By the end of the song, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Viktor passed you a chilled clay cup of ayran—cool, salty yogurt drink—and you gulped it down, grateful for the refreshment.

⸻

Lunch happened at long tables set up under the shade of walnut trees. Platters of grilled kebapche and lyutenitsa a thick red pepper spread passed from hand to hand. Someone piled your plate high before you could protest.

Viktor kept refilling your glass with a tart, ruby-red drink called kompot. When you teased him about mothering you, he replied in that steady, unruffled tone, “You vill faint in the heat if you do not drink.”

Halfway through the meal, one of his aunts leaned over and told you—quite sincerely—that you should wear red more often because it “keeps a man’s heart tied to you.” You laughed, but when Viktor’s gaze lingered on the ribbon in your hair, you had to look away.

⸻

In the afternoon, Viktor led you through narrow streets where painted shutters framed every window. You stopped at a small shop selling delicate silver jewelry, and while you examined a pair of earrings shaped like tiny suns, he quietly purchased a matching bracelet.

“For your collection,” he said, fastening it around your wrist. His fingers brushed your skin—too briefly, but enough to send a pulse of heat up your arm.

⸻

By the time evening came, the square transformed into a lantern-lit stage for more dancing. Strings of warm lights hung from tree to tree, and the smell of roasting nuts and cinnamon drifted through the air.

Viktor’s grandmother insisted you two join the horo—a traditional line dance. You protested you’d already embarrassed yourself enough, but she clucked her tongue and nudged you forward.

The steps were faster this time, the music swirling, and you clung to Viktor’s hand as the circle spun. His palm was calloused but gentle, and every time you looked up, he was already watching you.

⸻

When the musicians switched to a slower tune, couples drifted to the center of the square. You hesitated, certain this wasn’t part of the “fake dating” brief, but Viktor’s hand came to rest at the small of your back again.

“It vill look strange if we do not dance,” he said.

“That’s your excuse?” you asked, letting him draw you in.

The dance was simple—just swaying in time with the music—but his arm was solid around you, his chest warm where it brushed yours. Somewhere in the crowd, someone sighed loudly, and you knew the whispering would start all over again.

When the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. Neither did you.

⸻

You walked back to the house under strings of lanterns, carrying a paper-wrapped parcel of sweet kozunak bread for later.

“Your family is going to be relentless now,” you said, glancing sideways at him.

“They already were,” he replied. “Now, at least, they think I am… happy.”

There was something in the way he said it—quiet, almost shy—that made you wonder if this was still just an act for him.

You decided not to ask.

Not yet.

⸻

You woke to the smell of fresh coffee and the faint chatter of voices drifting up from the kitchen. Sunlight spilled across the embroidered curtains, and somewhere outside, a rooster crowed like it was auditioning for an opera.

By the time you came downstairs, Viktor’s grandmother had already pulled you into a chair and placed a steaming clay cup of coffee in your hands. Beside it sat a plate of mekitsi—golden, fried dough sprinkled with powdered sugar and served with honey.

“For my girl,” she said, patting your shoulder.

My girl.

The words warmed you almost as much as the coffee.

It wasn’t just her, either. The day passed in a blur of little kindnesses. His uncle brought you wildflowers from the meadow. His cousin insisted on showing you how to weave them into your hair. Neighbors you hadn’t even met yet greeted you with kisses on both cheeks, offering baskets of cherries and slices of cold watermelon.

Everywhere you turned, there was laughter, music, and a sense of belonging that wrapped around you like a soft blanket.

You’d thought you were here for Viktor.

But maybe… you were starting to fall for Bulgaria, too.

Which was the problem.

Because the more you let yourself enjoy this—the braids threaded with ribbons, the smell of fresh bread from the clay oven, the way Viktor’s family treated you like you’d always been one of them—the more dangerous it felt.

It was pretend. A favor. An arrangement that would end the moment the summer did. And yet…

Viktor had been quieter than usual today, though not in a bad way. You’d caught him watching you more than once, his expression unreadable. When you laughed with his little cousins over the way they tried to teach you tongue-twisters in Bulgarian, something in his eyes had softened.

You weren’t sure if you wanted to know what that meant.

By evening, the guilt had settled in your chest like a stone.

You found him on the back porch, sharpening a broom handle with the focus of a man carving marble. The sky was streaked in shades of peach and violet, crickets beginning to hum in the grass.

“Vik,” you said quietly.

He glanced up, setting the broom aside. “You are tired?”

“Not exactly.” You hesitated, then stepped closer. “I just… I think we need to talk. About all this.” You gestured vaguely toward the laughter spilling from the kitchen, the sound of his aunt humming over the clatter of dishes.

His brows knit slightly. “Is something wrong?”

Yes. No. Everything. “I just don’t want to… hurt anyone,” you said, the words catching more than you expected.

His gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he spoke, voice low. “Then talk to me. Tell me vhat you feel.”

If I don’t say anything now, I never will right?

“I can’t just… play along anymore,” you said finally, your voice too thin. “When I came here, I thought it was just a bit of fun. A favor for an old friend. But—” You broke off, swallowing hard. “Vik, I’ve fallen for everything here. Your grandmother’s banitsa. The smell of roasted peppers in the evening. The way everyone dances like the music is part of them. The ribbons, the braids, the way your little cousins make me feel like an older sister. I—”

Your voice caught, and you forced yourself to keep going.

“I love it here. All of it. And the more I love it, the more I hate that it’s all built on a lie.”

He was watching you quietly, jaw tight, but you didn’t let yourself stop.

“Because it’s not just the food or the traditions or the summer air,” you said, your voice breaking. “It’s you. It’s the way you always make sure my plate is full before you take your own. The way you stand between me and the crowd without thinking about it. The way you dance like you’re not good at it but you still do because your grandmother asked.”

A shaky breath slipped out. “You asked me to pretend. But I can’t pretend anymore, because it doesn’t feel like pretending, and I hate that I’m the only one in this… this thing feeling like that.”

The last words cracked completely, and before you could stop them, tears burned your eyes. You turned your face away, swiping at them with the heel of your hand.

Viktor didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he stood and crossed the porch, his shadow falling over you.

“You think you are the only one?” His voice was low, almost hoarse.

You blinked up at him, caught between confusion and hope.

“I did not invite you because I needed help,” he said. “I invited you because I vanted to see you. Because every letter you sent made my weeks feel shorter. Because I have not smiled as much in years as I have since you came.”

The tears blurred everything, but you could still see the way his eyes softened.

“It stopped being pretending for me before it even started,” he said simply.

You let out a helpless, choked laugh, covering your face for a moment before his hands gently pulled them away.

The crickets hummed. The scent of grapevines hung heavy in the warm air. And when his thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, you realized you didn’t have to feel guilty anymore.

Not if he’d been falling right alongside you.

⸻

The night had settled around you like a soft blanket, the sky spilling stars in every direction. Lanterns hung from the grapevines above, casting pools of golden light on the porch where you still stood—closer now, the space between you barely a whisper.

Viktor’s hands lingered on your cheeks, warm and steady. His breath hitched just enough to remind you he was as nervous as you felt.

For a moment, neither of you moved, caught in the quiet that stretched between words. Then, slowly, his forehead rested against yours.

“I am glad you came,” he murmured, voice low and rough with feeling.

You smiled, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the night sounds. “Me too.”

When he tilted his head, the world narrowed until there was only you, him, and the gentle brush of his lips on yours—soft, questioning, and perfectly sweet.

It wasn’t rushed or messy. It was the kind of kiss that promised something real, something you’d both been waiting for without quite knowing.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him a little closer. His hands cupped your face, grounding you, holding you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever found.

When you finally pulled back, breath mingling, you both laughed softly—relieved, joyful, a little breathless.

Behind you, the warm glow of the house spilled out, and through the open window came the faint sound of Viktor’s family, still laughing, still living, still loving around you.

You rested your forehead against his again, whispering, “So, I guess this means I’m not just your pretend girlfriend anymore?”

His smile was slow, sure. “No. You are much more than that.”

And with that, the summer night wrapped you both in its magic—no pretending needed.

Summary: When Y/N Riddle arrives from Durmstrang, Hogwarts learns there’s only one thing more dangerous than Mattheo’s temper — his twin sister. Warnings: Mentions of Violence, Smoking - Riddle! Reader, DurmstrangStudent! Reader Word Count: 6.5k

. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆. . • ☆ . °.•°:. *₊° .☆ :.

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Anyone who knew Mattheo Riddle would agree—he was the very definition of a mystery. But knowing him was a loose term; in truth, no one ever really did. Not even his closest friends could claim to know every corner of his mind. If you asked his best mates what his favorite subject at Hogwarts was, you’d be met with nothing but guesses.

That’s why it had been such a shock when Mattheo, almost offhandedly, revealed that his favorite class was Potions. Potions. From the boy who never missed an opportunity to call Snape a prick and rant about how insufferable he was, it was downright baffling.

So, when the Triwizard Tournament came to Hogwarts and the Durmstrang delegation arrived, the last thing anyone expected was to see Mattheo looking… excited. Not smirking. Not sneering. But actually, unmistakably grinning.

“Why do you actually look happy?” Enzo asked, eyeing him with suspicion as Mattheo’s gaze swept the crowd of fur-clad Durmstrang students again.

Karkaroff and Viktor Krum led the way into the Great Hall, their presence already commanding attention. But just behind them was a figure who made even Karkaroff’s arrogance falter—a girl, dressed in the same heavy furs as the rest, but the only female among them. There was something in the way Karkaroff glanced at her—something almost respectful—that made her stand out even more.

Karkaroff and Dumbledore exchanged pleasantries like old comrades, their words drowned out by the low hum of the Great Hall. But Y/N wasn’t listening. Her eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk—ignoring the grandeur, ignoring the whispers—locked on one goal, one reason she’d stepped foot in this godforsaken castle.

She didn’t flinch at the stares that followed her, nor at the brazen, flirty grins tossed her way by a few Hogwarts boys who clearly didn’t know any better. She moved with purpose, her boots clicking against the stone as she closed in on the Slytherin table, where Durmstrang students sat wrapped in furs and shadows.

And then she saw him.

A familiar head of dark, curling hair—her hair, mirrored. The moment their eyes met, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. He was already on his feet, arms open in a way no one at Hogwarts had ever seen from him.

“Matty!” she shouted, the name ringing out across the hall. She broke into a sprint, shoving past anyone in her way, and hurled herself into his arms.

“Sunshine!” Mattheo’s voice cracked with something dangerously close to joy. He crushed her against him, eyes squeezed shut, breathing her in like he’d been holding his breath for years. In that moment, the boy who’d built his reputation on cold stares and reckless defiance looked… human.

The Great Hall froze. Conversations died mid-sentence.

“Matty?” The name rippled through the air—first whispered in confusion, then echoed louder as recognition spread. Students gawked, exchanging bewildered glances. The most unpredictable, untouchable boy in all of Hogwarts, who had never been seen so much as smiling at anyone, was holding the mysterious new girl like she was the only thing in the world keeping him alive.

Theo and Draco’s mouths fell open, both frozen at the sight of their friend still clinging to the mystery girl like letting go would make her vanish. Blaise’s gaze flicked between Mattheo and the girl, brow furrowed, as if trying to piece together a puzzle that didn’t belong to this world.

Enzo, on the other hand, was staring for an entirely different reason. His eyes lingered shamelessly, taking her in from head to toe—the way her curls tumbled down her back in loose, effortless waves, catching the light every time she moved. There was an ease in her posture, a quiet confidence that made it hard to look away.

Mattheo finally pulled away, and for the first time, the boys got a proper look at the girl in his arms. Their mouths dropped like synchronized clockwork—not just because she was gorgeous enough to stop traffic, but because… something about her felt familiar.

Mattheo turned to introduce her—then froze mid-motion. His smile evaporated the instant he caught those looks. The ones he knew far too well. The ones he himself had perfected over the years whenever a pretty girl walked by.

His voice snapped through the air like a whip. “Stop bloody staring at her like that, you fucktards.”

Four heads jerked back in unison, their goofy, lovesick expressions vanishing like they’d been hit with a stunning spell.

Y/N smirked, clearly enjoying the effect she was having. She let her eyes sweep lazily over the group, her expression smug and unhurried.

The boys stared back… and that’s when they saw it. That smirk. The exact same infuriating smirk Mattheo wore whenever he was about to ruin someone’s day. Their jaws somehow dropped even lower.

“You’re not going to introduce me to your friends, Matty?” Y/N asked sweetly, the wicked edge to her grin daring him to refuse.

Mattheo glared at her. She didn’t flinch. Of course she didn’t.

He let out the slowest, most dramatic groan, dragging out the moment just to watch them squirm. “Alright, guys,” he said at last, “this is Y/N…”

Pause.

In that heartbeat of silence, the boys’ minds went haywire.

Theo: Wait… resemblance, same hair, same smug face—oh, bloody hell. Draco: No. No, there’s no way— Blaise: …If she’s related to him, I’m in trouble. Enzo: Worth it.

“…my twin sister.”

The Great Hall went dead silent for a beat—then erupted into a storm of whispers. The eavesdroppers closest to them actually gasped aloud, while Theo, Draco, Blaise, and Enzo looked like they’d just been slapped.

“And Sunshine,” Mattheo added flatly, jerking a thumb at the stunned quartet, “these are the pricks I told you about.”

“Pleasure meeting you all—finally.” Y/N’s grin curved slow and deliberate as her gaze swept over each boy, lingering just long enough to make them squirm. She looked them up and down like she was appraising rare magical artifacts she might or might not decide to keep.

She stopped at Theo first, her eyes glinting. “You look like the one who thinks he’s the sensible friend,” she said, lips twitching. “I give it two minutes before you prove me wrong.”

Theo’s brow rose, but the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.

Next, Draco. She tilted her head, letting her eyes drift from his perfectly combed hair to his polished shoes. “And you—definitely the one who takes longer to get ready than I do.”

Draco bristled, opening his mouth to retort, but she was already moving on.

Blaise got a slow, knowing smile. “Ah… the charmer. You look like trouble in nice packaging.”

Blaise smirked, but it faltered just enough to show she’d hit the mark.

Finally, her gaze landed on Enzo, whose eyes were still firmly planted on her. Y/N’s grin sharpened. “And you—stop undressing me with your eyes before my brother commits murder.”

Enzo had the decency to clear his throat, though the ghost of a grin lingered.

Mattheo stepped forward then, his arm still draped protectively around her shoulders. His voice was calm, but it carried the kind of weight that made people instinctively take a step back.

“Correction,” Mattheo cut in, his voice low and dangerous. “Before I commit murder. Let me make this easy for all of you—keep your hands, eyes, and any other body part you value to yourselves. That’s not a suggestion.”

The boys raised their hands in mock surrender, though none of them looked particularly repentant. Y/N just smirked wider, clearly enjoying every second of her brother’s irritation.

“Not bad, Matty,” Y/N said with a wink in her brother’s direction, “you’ve managed to surround yourself with a decent-looking lot. Guess even you get it right sometimes.”

Mattheo’s glare could’ve frozen a fire. He didn’t answer, just guided her firmly toward the bench and all but shoved her down onto it.

Around them, the buzz of conversation never quite returned to normal. Hogwarts students were still stealing glances their way, leaning across their tables to whisper behind their hands. The Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrivals had been the main event minutes ago, but now all eyes seemed fixed on the boy with the fearsome reputation and the girl bold enough to tease him without flinching.

Plates clinked, goblets sloshed, but every few seconds Mattheo caught another lingering stare from somewhere in the hall. His hand stayed on the back of Y/N’s chair a beat too long, as if daring anyone to try their luck.

Mattheo had barely gotten her to sit before Theo leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowing like he was trying to piece together a crime scene. “You have a sister?” he asked, voice low but edged with disbelief.

Draco, seated beside him, arched one perfectly groomed brow. His gaze lingered a moment too long, taking in the matching curls, the sharp tilt of her smirk, even the way her eyes glinted when she was amused. “Correction—an identical attitude in a different body.”

Blaise lounged back, swirling his goblet lazily as a slow smirk curled his lips. “And you just… weren’t going to mention her? At all?”

Enzo, leaning forward on his elbows, grinned like he’d just found his new favorite game. “Personally? I’m feeling betrayed. I could’ve been charming her ages ago.”

Y/N’s gaze slid to him, lingering just long enough to make it clear she’d noticed—and wasn’t opposed to the idea. But the spark in her eyes promised he’d have to work for it.

She gasped theatrically, pressing a hand to her chest. “You didn’t tell them about me? Matty, I’m hurt. Deeply wounded.” She tilted her head toward him, pouting in mock offense. “I thought we had a bond.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I was trying to spare them.”

“From what?” she shot back with a sly smile. “My charm? My dazzling personality?”

“From you,” he deadpanned, though his gaze flicked warningly to Theo—who was now staring between them like he’d spotted a mirror image with only a few differences. The same defiant spark, the same crooked grin—only hers carried a dangerous playfulness that could turn sharp in an instant.

Theo finally spoke. “So, Y/N… older or younger twin?”

“Older,” she replied without hesitation, taking a dainty sip from her goblet.

Mattheo groaned. “By two minutes.”

“Still counts,” Y/N said sweetly, setting her drink down with a delicate clink.

Draco smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “Explains a lot. The attitude clearly runs in the family.”

Y/N’s eyes locked on him, and her smirk shifted into something sharper. “Careful, blondie. I bite.”

Blaise chuckled under his breath, but Enzo didn’t look away—if anything, he leaned in slightly, his grin widening like he’d just been issued a challenge.

Mattheo’s patience snapped. He slammed his palm lightly against the table, rattling the plates. “No. You’re all going to keep your hands, eyes, and idiotic comments to yourselves.”

From a few feet away, a Ravenclaw boy who’d been blatantly eavesdropping whispered to his friend—loud enough to carry—“Merlin… they even have the same wicked looks of madness.”

A ripple of laughter and murmured agreement spread through the surrounding tables.

Y/N leaned back in her seat, one brow arched, clearly unfazed. “Relax, Matty,” she teased, bumping her shoulder into his. “I can handle your little friends.”

Her eyes flicked to Enzo again—brief, but enough to make him smirk like he already knew this wasn’t the last time their paths would cross.

From the way Theo was still studying her, Draco was trying not to grin, Blaise looked entertained, and Enzo looked… intrigued. Mattheo knew exactly where this was going. And he hated it already.

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.

.

The feast carried on, but Y/N could feel eyes on her from every direction. Hogwarts students kept sneaking glances, some whispering about the mysterious Durmstrang girl with the sharp tongue, others still wrapping their heads around the fact that Mattheo Riddle had a twin.

Enzo wasn’t whispering. He was leaning back in his seat across from her, one arm casually draped over the back of his chair, watching her like she was the main event.

“Enjoying the attention?” he asked, his tone light but with a flicker of challenge.

Y/N smirked over the rim of her goblet. “Why? Jealous it’s not on you?”

Theo nearly choked on his pumpkin juice, grinning like Christmas had come early. “Oh, this is brilliant. She’s just like you, Mattheo. Same attitude. Same smirk. And apparently, same shameless flirting.”

Mattheo glared. “Theo, shut your—”

Enzo interrupted with an easy grin. “Please. I’m just trying to figure out if she’s trouble… or my kind of trouble.”

Y/N set her goblet down and leaned in just slightly, curls spilling forward over her shoulder. “If you have to ask,” she said sweetly, “you’re already in over your head.”

Theo leaned in, elbowing Mattheo. “Hear that? That’s your game, mate. Guess we know where she gets it from.”

Draco smirked, clearly enjoying the show, while Blaise stage-whispered for half the table to hear, “It’s uncanny. Same smirk. Same attitude. Only difference is, she’s prettier.”

Mattheo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is my personal nightmare.”

Enzo’s grin widened. “Guess I’ll take my chances.”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, satisfied. “Good. I’d hate for Hogwarts to be boring.”

Mattheo muttered something about transfer papers while Theo grinned like he’d just found his new favorite way to torture him. And across the table, Y/N’s gaze lingered on Enzo a moment too long—like she’d just decided Hogwarts might not be so bad after all.

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.

By the time the last of the dessert vanished from the table, Y/N was leaning back in her seat, still wearing that faint, pleased smirk that had been there all dinner. The Great Hall was beginning to empty when a shadow fell over the table.

"Y/N," a deep, accented voice rumbled.

She glanced up to see Viktor Krum standing there, broad shoulders towering over half the hall. He nodded to Mattheo, then back to her. "Ve are going back to ship now. You come?"

Y/N rose smoothly from her seat, brushing an invisible crumb from her furs. “Yeah, I’m coming,” she said before turning to the Slytherin boys. “Goodnight, gentlemen.” Her gaze lingered on Enzo a heartbeat longer than the rest, and then she leaned down to press a kiss to Mattheo’s cheek. “See you tomorrow, Matty.”

The boys all watched in varying degrees of surprise as Viktor’s gaze softened slightly at her — the Quidditch legend himself looking, for all the world, like he might be one of Y/N’s many admirers.

Mattheo didn’t even try to hide the way he glared at Viktor as she walked away beside him. Viktor said something low to her in Bulgarian, and she laughed—actually laughed—before disappearing out of the Great Hall.

For a moment, there was silence at the table. Then Theo leaned forward, his brow raised. “Alright, spill. Why’s your sister at Durmstrang and not with you here?”

Mattheo pushed back from the table, muttering, “None of your business,” as he started walking.

The boys followed, trailing him toward the dungeons.

“Come on,” Blaise pressed. “You’ve never mentioned her once, and now she’s here—at Hogwarts—and somehow the only girl in the entire group?”

Draco smirked. “Yeah, that’s the other thing. Why is she the only girl they brought? Special treatment?”

Theo’s eyes narrowed with interest. “Or is she… different?”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened. “She’s there because she wants to be there. End of story.”

“That’s not an answer,” Enzo said, falling into step beside him.

Mattheo shot him a look that could have frozen fire. “It’s the only one you’re getting.”

The group lapsed into silence after that, but the questions hung heavy in the air—and from the looks on their faces, none of them planned on letting the matter drop.

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.

.

By the time they reached the Slytherin common room, the fire was burning low, casting long, twisting shadows across the damp stone walls. The eerie green light from the Black Lake filtered through the high windows, rippling faintly over the floor like liquid shadows. Most of the house had gone to bed, but the five of them stayed by the hearth, the air thick with unanswered questions and the low hum of curiosity.

Theo was the first to break the silence. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression sharp. “Alright, no one’s around now. Spill it. Why is she at Durmstrang and not here with you?”

Mattheo didn’t answer right away. He sank into one of the green leather chairs, his jaw tense, his gaze locked on the flames like he was debating whether they deserved the truth.

Blaise broke the silence. “You know we’re not dropping this, mate. She shows up, has half of us eating out of her hand in five minutes, and leaves with Krum like she owns the place. We’re not just going to forget that.”

Mattheo let out a slow, almost reluctant breath. “She’s there because our father sent her there. He knew Karkaroff wouldn’t coddle her the way Hogwarts would. And he wanted her in an environment where weakness isn’t tolerated—where they’d sharpen every edge she has until it could cut through bone.”

Draco frowned, his pale brows drawing together. “And he thought Durmstrang was the answer?”

Mattheo’s gaze flicked up, sharp and humorless. “Durmstrang doesn’t just push you. They strip you down and rebuild you. They’ll put a wand in your hand and teach you the spells Hogwarts doesn’t even whisper about. They don’t pretend the world is fair. They teach you how to win—at any cost.”

Theo tilted his head. “Any cost?”

Mattheo’s voice dropped lower, darker. “They teach the Unforgivable Curses.”

That got their attention. All four sat up straighter.

Blaise broke the silence first. “…You’re serious?”

Mattheo leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’ve seen her cast a Crucio without flinching.”

The fire popped, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.

Draco’s voice was quiet. “On who?”

Mattheo’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “One of her own classmates. He tried to hex her from behind during a duel. She didn’t hesitate—didn’t even raise her voice. Just turned, wand up, and put him on the ground screaming until he blacked out. She didn’t gloat. She didn’t yell. She just… watched. Calm. Like she was checking her watch to see how long it would take.”

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.

The dueling hall at Durmstrang was cold enough to sting the skin. A row of iron torches lined the stone walls, their flames casting jagged shadows across the floor. Students stood in a loose circle, boots scraping against the flagstones, eyes fixed on the two figures at the center.

Y/N stood with her wand loose in her hand, her posture almost casual. Her opponent—a tall, broad-shouldered sixth-year boy—paced in a tight circle, his smirk sharp with overconfidence.

“Ready to lose, little girl?” he taunted in a thick accent.

She didn’t answer. She just tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing as if she were studying a particularly boring insect.

Karkaroff’s voice cut through the cold air. “Begin.”

The boy moved first—fast, vicious, a jet of red light streaking toward her. She sidestepped with an almost lazy grace, returning fire with a sharp, precise flick. The spell missed by inches, but it was enough to make him falter.

They traded spells, the air between them flashing in reds and golds. Then, without warning, the boy tried a different tactic.

A second wand flashed behind her. Another student—one who hadn’t been invited into the duel—had slipped his wand free, aiming straight for her back.

She turned without even glancing, her wand snapping up.

“Crucio.”

The word left her lips like silk—soft, deliberate, unhurried. The boy behind her dropped instantly, a strangled scream tearing from his throat as he collapsed, his limbs jerking violently.

No one moved.

Y/N didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. She simply stood there, wand steady, her gaze fixed on the boy writhing at her feet. There was no wild fury in her expression—just a cold, measured focus, as if she were timing his endurance.

“Enough.” Karkaroff’s voice was low, but there was something almost approving in it.

She released the curse instantly. The boy lay panting on the ground, twitching once in a while. He had passed out from the pain. She didn’t spare him another glance. Instead, she turned back to her original opponent—who now stood frozen, his wand limp at his side.

“Do you yield?” she asked, voice light, almost polite.

He nodded once, stiffly.

She smiled—small, controlled, and utterly humorless. “Wise choice.”

Karkaroff stepped forward, addressing the crowd. “This—” he gestured to her “—is why she is top of her class.”

The students didn’t cheer. They didn’t clap. They simply parted for her as she walked from the center of the ring. No one wanted to stand in her way.

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.

.

No one said anything at first. The fire crackled in the heavy silence, shadows twisting along the stone walls.

Theo sat back slowly. “Bloody hell.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “And that didn’t get her expelled?”

Mattheo shook his head. “It got her top marks. At Durmstrang, power earns respect. Mercy gets you killed.”

Draco leaned back, studying him. “So she’s dangerous.”

Mattheo gave a humorless laugh. “Dangerous doesn’t even begin to cover it. She’s the top of her class—not because she’s the cleverest, but because she’s the one everyone else is afraid to cross. She’s calculated. Cold when she needs to be. She doesn’t lash out without reason—but if you give her one, she won’t stop until you’re on the floor. And she won’t lose sleep over it.”

Theo arched a brow. “And she’s the only girl they brought here?”

Mattheo nodded once. “Because she earned it. And because no one at Durmstrang is stupid enough to try and take her spot. Not twice, anyway.”

Blaise leaned back in his chair, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So basically, she’s you—if you were scarier and in heels.”

Mattheo’s gaze cut to him. “She’s worse. Trust me.”

Enzo, who’d been quiet until now, finally spoke, his grin slow and deliberate. “Sounds like my kind of girl.”

Mattheo’s head snapped toward him, his tone dropping to a low, venomous growl. “Don’t. You have no idea what you’re playing with.”

Enzo’s grin didn’t falter. “Didn’t say I would. Just said she sounds like it.”

Theo let out a low whistle. “Merlin help us all if she decides she likes it here.”

Mattheo leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the fire. “Merlin help you if she decides she doesn’t.”

The crackle of the flames filled the silence that followed, but the weight of his words lingered in the air—heavy, unsettling, and just a little too believable.

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.

.

Breakfast at Hogwarts was never quiet, but that morning it seemed louder than usual. Students were still buzzing about the Durmstrang arrivals, snippets of conversation floating through the air — and more than a few of those whispers included the name Y/N Riddle.

Mattheo walked in with Theo, Draco, Blaise, and Enzo, already bracing himself for the inevitable attention. Sure enough, the second they stepped inside, a few heads turned toward the Slytherin table, eyes flicking to the empty seat where Y/N might be.

“She’s not even here yet and people are still staring,” Theo muttered, sounding impressed.

“She’s probably still on the ship,” Blaise said casually. “You know, plotting world domination.”

Enzo smirked. “Or deciding which poor bastard she’s going to toy with today.”

Mattheo shot him a warning look. “You’re first on the list if you keep talking like that.”

They had just sat down when the Great Hall doors swung open.

Y/N walked in with Viktor Krum at her side, speaking to him in low, accented Bulgarian. She wore her Durmstrang uniform without a single wrinkle, the heavy fur draped over her shoulders making her look every inch the part of someone who didn’t belong to Hogwarts — someone above it.

Every conversation within twenty feet seemed to dip in volume.

At first, she was all charm — flashing a faint, easy smile at the Ravenclaw table when a few boys greeted her, murmuring a polite “Good morning” to a small group of Hufflepuff girls she passed. But then, a loud, mocking voice carried from the Gryffindor table.

“Oi, Durmstrang! How much did you pay Krum to follow you around like a lost puppy?”

The smirk slid from her face like a blade slipping back into its sheath.

She stopped mid-stride, the click of her boots against the stone abruptly halting. The shift in the air was immediate — subtle, but heavy, like the moment before a storm.

In three unhurried steps, she crossed the space to the Gryffindor table. The boy who’d spoken leaned back in his seat, still smirking — until she rested one hand lightly on the table beside his plate and bent just enough for her voice to carry only to him.

“That was cute,” she said softly, but there was no warmth in it — only ice. “Say something like that again, and I’ll make sure you never speak above a whisper again. Ever. You won’t even be able to scream.”

His smirk faltered instantly.

She straightened, her eyes holding his for one beat longer than was comfortable — just long enough to make it clear she wasn’t bluffing. Then she gave him the faintest, most insincere smile and turned on her heel.

Y/N reached their table just as Viktor broke off toward the far end, where the rest of the Durmstrang students had claimed their seats. She slid into the empty spot between Mattheo and Enzo, the faint chill of the morning still clinging to her fur-trimmed cloak.

She turned toward her brother, a smile playing on her lips. “Morning, Matty,” she said, voice warm as she began serving herself breakfast — a generous helping of eggs and toast with the casual ease of someone who felt entirely at home.

Mattheo set down his fork long enough to give her a small smile — the kind of smile no one else ever got from him. “Good morning, Sunshine,” he replied, his tone light but with a familiar glint in his eyes. “I see you’re already making acquaintances with the Gryffindorks.” His smirk widened as he took a slow sip of his coffee.

Y/N rolled her eyes, spearing a piece of toast with unnecessary force. “Mm-hm. They were… chatty.”

Then she glanced down the table, meeting each of the other Slytherin boys’ eyes in turn. “Morning, boys.”

Theo nodded with an easy grin, Blaise offered a smooth “Good morning,” Draco’s brow arched ever so slightly in acknowledgment — and Enzo, seated on her other side, returned her greeting with the kind of slow smile that lingered just a little too long.

Y/N smiled back at Enzo before turning to her breakfast, slicing into her eggs with deliberate ease. “Are you going to come see me train later?” she asked her brother, who at that moment was too busy glaring at Enzo for sitting what he clearly deemed far too close.

Mattheo tore his gaze from Enzo long enough to glance at her. “Yeah, I am. You’re going to fight Krum?”

She nodded, her eyes lighting up with excitement. “Yup. I’m the only one who can beat him one-on-one. The other boys don’t last more than a second.”

Theo, mid-bite, nearly dropped his fork. “Wait — you’re going to fight Krum? As in hand-to-hand combat or duel?”

Y/N smirked, leaning back in her chair. “Didn’t my brother tell you, pretty boy? At Durmstrang, we do both at the same time.”

Blaise set down his goblet, brows rising. “What does that even mean?”

Her grin sharpened. “It means that while you’re busy trying to keep a shield charm up, someone’s aiming a punch at your throat. And if you drop your guard for even a second, you’re finished.” She speared another bite of toast and spoke like she was discussing the weather. “We train to keep fighting even if we lose our wand. And if your opponent’s still breathing after you’ve disarmed them… well, then you didn’t finish the job.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Sounds… brutal.”

“Brutal is when you’ve already lost,” Y/N replied simply, taking a sip of her tea. “What we do is efficient.”

Blaise chuckled low under his breath. “And you can beat Krum?”

Y/N’s gaze flicked to him, unblinking. “I have beaten Krum. Multiple times. He hates it.” A faint, satisfied smile curved her lips. “But he keeps asking for rematches. Guess some people like losing.”

Mattheo muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Better him than you.”

“Can we come?” Enzo asked, nodding toward himself and the other three boys, who looked just as intrigued as he was.

Y/N tilted her head, pretending to consider it, her lips curling into a slow, teasing grin. “Hmmm…” she hummed, dragging it out just to watch them lean forward. “I do like an audience.”

Theo smirked. “That sounded like a yes.”

Mattheo cut in before anyone could get too excited. “That sounded like trouble. For all of you.”

Y/N only laughed, taking another sip of her tea like she’d already decided the matter. “Meet me by the training grounds after lunch. If you’re brave enough.”

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.

.

The air outside was crisp, the stone courtyard bordered by towering, weathered walls. The training grounds were sectioned off with dueling marks carved into the ground, and rows of weapon racks stood against the edges.

When the Slytherin boys arrived with Mattheo, Krum was already there — stripped of his cloak, sleeves rolled to his elbows, wand in hand. His expression was unreadable as he paced the center circle, but there was a quiet focus in his movements.

Y/N stood across from him, her fur-lined cloak tossed over a bench, sleeves rolled, wand held loosely at her side. She looked relaxed — far too relaxed for someone about to face Viktor Krum.

Theo muttered under his breath to Enzo, “She doesn’t even look like she’s trying to psych herself up.”

Enzo smirked faintly. “Maybe she doesn’t need to.”

Mattheo heard them and shot them both a look that said, Just watch.

Karkaroff’s voice rang out sharp in the chilly air. “Begin.”

Krum moved first, firing off a rapid succession of hexes. Y/N’s wand was already moving, deflecting each with an ease that looked almost lazy. Then, as another streak of red light came toward her, she sidestepped and stepped in, closing the distance between them in seconds.

The watching boys barely had time to register the blur of movement before she struck — a precise kick to the back of Krum’s knee that made him falter, followed by a disarming spell that sent his wand spinning.

But Krum didn’t stop. His hand shot out, grabbing her forearm, trying to twist her off balance. She spun with it, using the momentum to drive her elbow into his ribs before flipping her wand into her other hand and aiming it straight at his chest.

“Expulso!”

Krum staggered back a step, the blast of force making him plant his feet hard. He swung a punch; she ducked it, catching his arm mid-swing and forcing him down onto one knee before slipping away again.

The match became a blur of magic and hand-to-hand strikes — shields cast mid-spin, punches thrown mid-incantation. Y/N moved like she’d done this a hundred times before, her spells and strikes seamlessly woven together.

Finally, she feinted left, forcing Krum to block, then swept his legs out from under him. In one fluid motion, she pinned him with her knee against his chest, wand aimed squarely between his eyes.

Karkaroff’s voice cut through the sharp silence. “Match over.”

Y/N rose without a word, offering Krum a hand up. He took it, muttering something in Bulgarian that made her smirk.

Theo let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell.”

Draco only gapped, "She-Riddle is insane."

Blaise leaned slightly toward Mattheo. “Okay… now I get it.”

Enzo’s grin had only widened. “I think I've fallen in love.”

Mattheo’s glare was immediate. “Say that again and I’ll make sure you’re next in the ring.”

Enzo only chuckled, eyes still on Y/N as she brushed off her hands like nothing had happened.

Y/N crossed the courtyard toward them, slow and deliberate, every step carrying the kind of self-assuredness that made people instinctively get out of her way. Her curls were slightly mussed from the fight, her smirk entirely intact.

She stopped in front of the group, wand twirling lazily between her fingers. “So,” she drawled, eyes flicking over each of them, “did you boys enjoy the show?”

Theo gave a sharp nod. “Show? That was a bloody execution. You didn’t mention you could do that.”

Y/N’s grin widened just a touch. “I find bragging ruins the surprise.”

Her gaze slid to Enzo — slow, deliberate, and lingering. “But you…” she said, voice softening into something far more dangerous, “you’ve been staring since the moment I stepped in the ring. I’m starting to think you’re impressed.”

Enzo met her look with a faint smirk, leaning back like he wasn’t completely rattled. “Maybe I am.”

Y/N stepped into his space just enough for her presence to sink in, the faint scent of frost and leather clinging to her. “Good,” she murmured, tilting her head ever so slightly. “I’d hate to waste my best moves on someone who wasn’t paying attention.”

Mattheo made a disgusted noise. “Alright, that’s enough—”

Y/N ignored him, her grin widening as she finally turned to her brother. “Speaking of wasting moves… what do you say, Matty? You and me. Ring. No holding back.”

Mattheo raised a brow, his coffee-dark eyes narrowing. “You want me to humiliate you in front of your new audience?”

Y/N’s laugh was low and sharp. “Oh, sweetheart… I was hoping to humiliate you.”

The boys went very still, glancing between them like they’d just been handed tickets to the best show in Hogwarts. Enzo’s smirk deepened, clearly enjoying the idea far too much.

Mattheo shook his head, muttering, “You’re insane,” but the challenge hung in the air between them, crackling like static.

By the time the Riddle twins stepped into the dueling ring, the crowd had swelled so much the wards were practically buzzing from the press of bodies. Hogwarts students jostled with Durmstrang boys for a better view, and at the far edge, Karkaroff stood with his arms folded, his dark eyes locked on the twins like a predator sizing up prey he wanted to claim.

There were no pleasantries. No bow. No handshake. Just one slow, knowing look between brother and sister — the kind that said you’re mine.

The second the signal was given, Y/N moved first. Her wand slashed downward, and a deafening Reducto split the platform in two, stone shrapnel flying into the crowd. Students screamed and ducked. Mattheo had to throw himself sideways to avoid a chunk the size of his head.

“Merlin’s balls, Sunshine,” he laughed darkly, “trying to kill me already?”

“Always,” she shot back, voice dripping with amusement.

He retaliated instantly, his wand a blur as he sent a curse screaming toward her — not quite the Killing Curse, but close enough to make the crowd recoil. Y/N didn’t flinch. She spun out of the way, the spell missing her by a hair’s breadth, and fired back a silent hex that cracked across his ribs with the impact of a Bludger.

Mattheo grunted but grinned, his eyes lighting up with something wild. He switched to speed, driving her back with a volley of vicious spells — Confringo, Diffindo, Bombarda Maxima — each one meant to hurt.

But Y/N was Durmstrang-trained. She didn’t just block; she countered with equal brutality. She sent a stunner that shattered his shield like glass, followed by an Expulso that detonated the floor between them in a burst of flame and stone.

From the crowd, Theo muttered under his breath, “This is less a duel and more attempted murder.”

Enzo, however, was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Y/N with a fascinated grin.

Mattheo tried to get the upper hand by circling to her blind spot, but Y/N read his footwork instantly. She pivoted, wand flashing, and a sharp, almost lazy flick sent a slicing hex so close it opened his cheek. A bead of blood slid down, and she smiled — smiled — like she’d just landed a perfect chess move.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Mattheo growled.

“You’ll have to catch me first, brother.”

And she made him work for it. She ducked under his stunner, slid across the fractured stone floor, and hooked her leg behind his in a brutal sweep. He hit the platform hard enough that the crowd collectively gasped. She didn’t give him a second to recover — her wand was at his throat, a whisper away from casting something dark.

Mattheo’s grin only widened. In one fluid motion, he grabbed her wrist, rolled them both over, and slammed his wand into her ribs hard enough to bruise. “Yield?” he panted.

“In your dreams,” she hissed — and jabbed her knee into his side so hard he lost his breath.

They broke apart and went back at it, spell for spell, neither holding back. Her hair was a wild halo of curls now, his shirt was torn and bloodstained, and the air around them crackled with heat and magic.

When they finally landed simultaneous spells — his a bone-rattling Blasting Curse, hers a Disarming Charm fueled with so much raw power it could have shattered ribs — the collision exploded in a shockwave that knocked both their wands from their hands and sent them sliding backward across the stone.

Silence. Then the crowd roared.

Both were breathing hard, chests rising and falling, staring at each other with grudging respect.

“Evenly matched,” Mattheo finally said.

“For now,” Y/N replied, wiping a smear of blood from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

From the sidelines, Karkaroff’s voice carried over the noise, deep and certain: “If I had both Riddle twins at Durmstrang, the rest of the wizarding world would be begging for mercy.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes. Y/N only tilted her head in acknowledgment, her smirk never faltering.

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.

.

The Astronomy Tower was nearly empty, save for the sound of a faint breeze whispering against the stone. Moonlight washed everything in pale silver, stretching shadows across the cold floor. Enzo leaned against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, exhaling slow curls of smoke into the dark sky.

“You know,” a voice broke the quiet, low and teasing, “those will kill you.”

He didn’t startle, but he did glance over his shoulder. Y/N stepped out of the shadows like she belonged to the night itself, the tip of her own cigarette glowing as she took a drag. The cold caught in her curls, the faint scent of smoke and something faintly sweet trailing with her.

“I could say the same to you,” Enzo replied, turning back toward the lake.

She moved closer, her boots barely making a sound on the stone. “Yeah,” she said, blowing smoke out toward the stars, “but I look good doing it.”

Enzo’s smirk tugged higher. “Can’t argue with that.”

“Smart boy,” she said, leaning her hip against the railing beside him. Her tone was light, but her eyes cut sharp as glass. “But just so we’re clear—” she took a slow drag “—I’m not easy to please.”

“Oh, I never thought you were,” Enzo said, flicking ash into the darkness. “But you strike me as the type who enjoys watching people try.”

“You’d be right,” she murmured, turning to look at him fully. “Most quit before they’ve even started. They think a pretty smile and a handful of compliments is all it takes.”

“And what does it take?” he asked, not breaking her gaze.

A slow, deliberate smirk spread across her face. “Patience. Teeth. And the balls to push back when I push first.”

That earned him a pause — just long enough for him to take a step closer, close enough that her smoke mingled with his. “I’ve got all three.”

Her eyes flicked down to his mouth for the briefest second before returning to his. “Careful, Lorenzo. I might just make you prove it.”

For a moment, they stood like that — smoke, moonlight, and the faint hum of something neither of them was saying aloud. Then she tilted her head and delivered the line that caught him completely off guard.

“You know, if I wanted to… I could ruin you.”

Enzo blinked once, then huffed a quiet laugh. “And if I wanted to… I might just let you.”

Her smirk deepened. “Good answer.” She flicked her cigarette over the railing, the ember spiraling down into the darkness. “Guess we’ll see how much you mean it.”

She turned, walking away without a backward glance. Enzo stayed where he was, watching her disappear down the spiral stairs, smoke still lingering in the cold air.