𝖞𝖚𝖆

[1]､｡! 𝔜𝔘𝔄’𝔰 𝔭𝔯𝔬𝔣𝔦𝔩𝔢:

GENERAL INFO: 19 | aries | xinese-spanish | based in europe | would sell my soul to the devil | lives for toxicity, angst and good endings | sucker for pretty boys | slytherin | hopeless romantic soul

LOVEd and LOVEs: music! techno, jazz and rock. reading! CURRENT: “Train car named Desire.”cooking! savory. fashion! issey miyake, vvww, galliano, juicy c, reí (cdg), yamamoto, and many, many, more…

[2]､｡! ℜ𝔲𝔩𝔢𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℜ𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔰:

THIS BLOG DOESN’T CONDONE: racism, politics, matters that don’t have anything to do with the blog contents, [i value politeness over a lot of things] being rude or disrespectful, spamming, s4s, f4f, copying, translating.

TABLE OF CONTENTS: 1.all my fics have warnings, make sure to read them before you engage. 2.all my fics will be written in english. 3.there will be smut fics that are 18+. please respect the age limit and refrain yourselves from saying or implying that you are a minor. (it makes me, and the other readers uncomfortable.) 4

may i remind you that these fics are a product of my imagination.

i do NOT reflect the real opinions and personalities of my face claims!

★ ★

! 𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔯𝔢𝔮𝔲𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔰: [for requests]

i would love to see y’all’s ideas and i will definitely add credit when its due. [if you would like to explicitly share that it was you, either take off anon or sign with your @]

for the moment, i wont do tag lists :(

right now, i only accept “slytherin boys” requests (but this is not definite, as i’m a hopeless romantic).

🥛

The castle is asleep—or at least pretending to be. 

The corridors are quiet, except for the occasional creak of a floorboard or a distant snore echoing from some unlucky dorm.

The party is over, leaving behind a faint haze of spilled alcohol and drugs, candle smoke, and the unmistakable odor of hormonal teenage sweat. Lovely. 

You’re halfway down the Slytherin corridor, hoodie half-zipped, hair sticking up like it’s trying to escape your head, sweats that are not yours and too big barely clinging to your hips, and, of course, a brain fog heavier than all the shit you’ve done tonight.

It’s ridiculous. 

You know it’s ridiculous. But somehow, in the blurry, post-party haze, it’s perfect—an indisputable marker of your escapade.

It’s around five a.m when you catch sight of Mattheo Riddle.

He’s doing that thing where he pretends to be lowkey — collar popped, sleeves rolled up, steps light but way too confident to pass as innocent. 

It’s funny really, as he’s sneaking in, of course. Typical.

And you? You’re doing exactly the opposite.

You’re sneaking out.

The air in the hallway is heavy, still buzzing faintly from the remnants of whatever chaos just happened behind that door — the door, by the way, with a white sock still hanging off the knob like a pathetic little trophy of shame.

You try to act casual, but the moment Mattheo’s eyes meet yours, you already know it’s over. His lips twitch, fighting a grin. The kind that starts small and ends in trouble.

He glances at the sock.

Then at you.

Then back at the sock.

And you just know he’s going to be unbearable.

You try to pass him without saying a word, but he shifts, just enough to block your path. He doesn’t even have to say anything — the smirk does all the talking. That slow, lazy kind of smirk that says he knows everything you don’t want him to know. 

You roll your eyes, whispering, “Don’t.”

That makes it worse.

He leans in, voice low and quiet enough that it feels like heat on your neck. “You’re up late,” he points out.

You exhale a sharp breath through your nose, half laughing, half mortified. “You’re up early.”

The silence is so ridiculous it’s almost funny.

He can't help but let his gaze drop for a second, shamelessly checking you out.

Perhaps is that unmistakable post-fuck glow he really wishes he would enjoy at least once in his lifetime, but thats a dirty little secret he likes to keeps close to his heart. Something he’ll pretend not to think about later.

He hums, almost to himself. “Touché.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, trying to act casual, though your brain is screaming that casual left the building a long time ago.

“So, um…” you start, voice cracking just enough to make your composure laughable. “You just came back? Who was the lucky girl this time?”

He smiles, that slow, teeth full in display, infuriating kind of smile that looks like it’s been practiced in the mirror a hundred times but somehow still manages to feel effortless. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The way he says it—low, drawling, just a hint of taunt—makes your stomach twist. It’s the kind of tone that would start an argument if either of you had the energy, but at five in the morning, it just hangs there between you, thick and charged.

You roll your eyes, trying for dismissive. “Just making conversation, Riddle. No need to be so mysterious about it.”

He tilts his head, “maybe I like a little mystery,” he says, as a cheeky tug on the corner of his lips makes its presence. “Keeps things interesting.”

You scoff, trying to mask the flutter in your stomach with bravado. “Merlin, that’s rich. Mystery? You’re the same guy who always has to be the center of attention. If this is what you call mysterious…”

Mattheo chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck “You’d be surprised.” There’s weight in it, subtle but dangerous, and you know it. His eyes flick to you for a moment longer than necessary, and you feel it—the little spike of jealousy he’s pretending isn’t there.

Because let’s be honest: the truth is, he wishes it was you.

You catch it, of course. You always do. That faint twitch in his jaw, the heat in his eyes. And suddenly, the hallway feels smaller, tighter, almost vibrating between the two of you.

You roll your eyes again, shaking your head, trying to ignore the stupid, twisting tension. “Right…,” you mutter, “because nothing screams ‘mysterious’ like awkwardly wandering the halls at five in the morning, babe.”

“Babe?” he repeats, eyebrows lifting, like he’s tasting the word on his tongue just to ruin it for you.

You freeze for a second too long. “It’s a figure of speech,” you lie, too quickly.

“Sure it is.” His grin widens, “didn’t know we were on babe terms now.”

You shove past him, or try to. His shoulder brushes yours, a touch that shouldn’t feel like anything, but does anyway—electric, deliberate, irritatingly aware.

“Mattheo, move please.”

He doesn’t. 

“You know,” he murmurs, gaze flicking over you, “I always wondered what kind of trouble you’d get into after curfew. Never thought it’d involve someone else’s sweatpants.”

Your head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. “Careful, you sound jealous.”

“Who says I’m not?” he fires back, smooth, too smooth, and that’s when you realize he’s not joking.

You should walk away. You should, but the castle’s pretending to sleep just to give you both privacy, and you have to take the opportunity.

But then he leans closer, close enough that you catch the faint scent of firewhisky and something darker underneath, something him.

“Tell me,” he says quietly, “was it worth it?”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He smirks again, cruel in that beautiful way of his. “Sneaking out of someone else’s room just to run into me.”

“Oh, the irony,” you fire back as quickly as your pulse. “I was actually trying to avoid running into delusional egos at this hour.”

“That’s a shame,” he says, closing the space with a lazy confidence that dares you to step back. “My ego tends to keep excellent company.”

“Yeah?” you reply, crossing your arms, pretending his nearness doesn’t rattle you. “Can’t imagine it gets invited anywhere twice.”

He laughs softly—dangerous, genuine, too close. “You wound me.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll bleed arrogance.”

“Not likely,” he murmurs, gaze dropping briefly to your lips before catching himself. “You’d need to get closer for that kind of damage.”

You snort, half‑amused, half‑betrayed by the heat rising to your cheeks. “In your dreams, Matt.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” he says, almost serious now, voice steadier—he can't help himself but to direct his eyes at you.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper.

“Like what?” he asks, voice rough around the edges, but it’s teasing, barely.

“Like I’m—” You hesitate, tongue caught on the truth.

“Worth the trouble?” he finishes for you, a soft, reckless smile playing on his lips.

You almost forget to breathe. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning down just enough for his breath to brush your cheek, “but I’m your idiot… apparently.”

That earns him a startled tug of a smile from you, and for once, there’s no sharpness between you—just the maddening sweetness of something you both refuse to name.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “You should go before I do something stupid.”

“Like what?” you whisper, heartbeat betraying you.

He grins again, this time softer, almost shy. “Like ask you to stay.”

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who watches you like you’re center stage, eyes dark and unblinking, taking in every shift of your expression like you’re reciting the most intoxicating monologue he’s ever heard. When you catch him staring, he only smirks. "Just admiring the performance, darling."

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who speaks in velvet and sharp edges, whose words could cut or caress depending on his mood, who backs you against a bookshelf in the library with a script in hand, murmuring, "Let’s rehearse, shall we?" but his gaze is anywhere but on the words—fixed instead on your parted lips, your heaving breath, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like you’re waiting for him to make a move.

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who leans in at the worst moments, just close enough that you feel the heat of him, his breath teasing against your skin, but never quite touching. In a dimly lit theatre before the curtains rise, in a quiet corridor where no one can see. He lingers, smirking at the way your breath hitches. "Tell me, love," he murmurs, voice laced with amusement. "Is it the suspense that’s killing you, or me?"

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo whose hands are always controlled, deliberate—except when it comes to you. With you, his grip tightens just a little too much, fingers digging into your waist when he pulls you closer, palm ghosting over your thigh when you sit beside him. "You’re quite the distraction," he muses, voice low, as if it’s your fault his hands can’t seem to stay still.

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who knows exactly what he’s doing when he drops his voice to that slow, deliberate drawl, tilting his head like he’s watching the climax of a scene unfold in real time. "You love this, don’t you?" he murmurs, tracing an idle finger along your jaw. "The build-up. The tension. Tell me, darling, how long do you think we can make this last?"

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who argues about the nuances of contemporary theatre with the same passion some people reserve for war, whose sharp tongue cuts like a well-rehearsed monologue, but softens when you roll your eyes and call him insufferable. "Come on, love, you have to admit I have a point."

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who smells like old books and expensive cologne, who carries a well-worn play script in his coat pocket, pages dog-eared and scribbled with notes, but never lets anyone see them except for you. "It’s not finished," he murmurs when you catch a glimpse. "Yet."

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who quotes lines from plays under his breath without realizing, who will argue to the death that nothing beats live theatre, but still begrudgingly sits through a Tarantino film just because you love it. "Don’t look so smug," he mutters when the credits roll, "I suppose it wasn’t terrible."

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who tugs you close in the dim glow of a theatre lobby, fingers ghosting over your wrist like a director guiding an actor into place, his voice low and teasing. "If we were in a play right now," he murmurs, "this would be the part where I kiss you."

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who lingers in dressing rooms filled with fading lights and the smell of roses, his tie undone, his eyes lazy and warm. “You know,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over the smudge of eyeliner beneath your eye, “the best performances are the ones no one’s supposed to see.”

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who never claps at your performances, no matter how good you are — just watches, quiet and intent, until you meet his gaze. Only then does he smile, slow and deliberate. “You already know I’m impressed,” he says. “Why waste the applause?”

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who leans against the stage door after a show, cigarette unlit between his fingers, voice rough from cheering for you in silence. “You were brilliant,” he says, but his tone makes it sound like a confession — like brilliance isn’t what he came for, but you.

⋆｡˚ theatrelover!mattheo who gets jealous in silence, hiding it behind lazy smirks and cutting jokes. You mention someone else’s compliment and his jaw tightens. “Oh?” he says casually. “Guess everyone wants front-row seats now.”

Mattheo has a tick.

It shows up when he’s trying too hard to seem unbothered — a small, almost imperceptible twitch in his jaw, the muscle there tightening like he’s biting back something sharp. Most people miss it. You don’t.

You’ve seen it in class, when you correct him under your breath. During study sessions, when you answer before he does. Even when you laugh at someone else’s joke — that tiny clench, the flicker of something possessive, gone before anyone else can catch it.

You shouldn’t notice it, but you do. It’s a tell, a pulse of honesty in someone who hides behind a smirk and a drawl. The more you see it, the more you realize it’s the only time he ever looks real.

Tonight, you see it again.

It’s late — past midnight — and the dungeons are quiet except for the sound of dripping water and your footsteps echoing off the stone. The corridors are cold this deep in the castle, your breath visible in the dim torchlight. You’re heading back from the library, trying to remember if you left your quill behind, when you hear him behind you.

“Studying again?” His voice is lazy, familiar — that sort of drawl that makes your name sound like both a challenge and a joke.

You don’t turn around. “You stalking me now?”

He chuckles. “You wish.”

When you finally glance back, he’s leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor — shirt untucked, tie loose, hair a mess like he just rolled out of a fight or a nap. The torchlight catches on the edge of his jaw, and there it is. That tick.

“You’re out late,” you say.

“So are you.” He pushes off the wall and walks closer, his shoes dragging a little on the stone floor. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Guilt’ll do that,” you mutter.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth pulling up, but his eyes are watching you too closely. “For what? Outperforming you again?”

You snort. “Keep telling yourself that.”

He’s close now — close enough that you can smell the faint trace of smoke and peppermint clinging to his uniform. The air feels heavier here, thick with whatever this thing between you has become. You glance away, but he steps closer again.

“Why do you do that?” you ask quietly.

“Do what?”

“That little thing with your jaw.”

He blinks, caught off guard. “What thing?”

You tilt your head, studying him. “The twitch. You do it when you’re trying not to say something.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, lips parting slightly. Then, almost involuntarily, his jaw tightens again — the same tell you were talking about. You let out a soft laugh. “See? That.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You notice too much.”

“It’s not my fault you’re easy to read.”

That earns you a real reaction — a quiet scoff, half amusement, half disbelief. He takes one more step forward, until your back almost grazes the cold stone wall. His voice drops, rougher now. “I’m not easy to read. You just keep staring long enough to try.”

Your pulse jumps, but you hold your ground. “Maybe I like knowing what bothers you.”

He leans in a fraction, breath ghosting the edge of your jaw. “Maybe that’s dangerous.”

“Maybe you like that,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer, just watches you, eyes flicking down to your mouth and back. The air between you hums — too charged, too alive for this hour of the night. His jaw twitches again, slow this time, deliberate. He knows you see it.

“Careful,” he murmurs, almost smiling. “You’re starting to sound like you like me.”

You meet his gaze, steady. “You’d like that too much.”

“Maybe,” he says, the word slipping out before he can stop it.

And for a moment, neither of you move. The torch crackles. Water drips somewhere in the dark. His eyes stay on you, that stubborn twitch pulsing again like a heartbeat.

Then he steps back — just enough to breathe — and the space he leaves behind feels colder than before.

“Goodnight, Riddle,” you say softly.

He smirks, but his voice is quieter now. “Night, sweetheart.”

If Mattheo Riddle had a sickle for every time someone said “She’s too good for you,” he could buy out Honeydukes and burn it to the ground just to watch her pout about it.

She’s sunshine personified—wears yellow jumpers even in winter, leaves little pressed flowers in library books, and greets the bloody Bloody Baron like he’s just a misunderstood uncle. She’s also a Hufflepuff. Of course she is.

And she calls him Matty.

Like she owns the name. Like it was made for her mouth only.

And maybe it was.

But the first time you said it, eyes bright, smile so innocent it physically hurt, he nearly dropped his wand. Called you insane. Stalked off. Then spent the entire night in the Astronomy Tower trying to replay the sound of it in his head like some lovesick idiot.

Now it’s a problem. A situation.

A Matty situation.

Because when she says it? It sounds like something soft. Like the ghost of a smile he didn’t mean to have. Like safety, but dangerous. And Merlin help him, he likes it.

He hates everyone else.

Especially Theo, who—despite having the instincts of a drunk flobberworm—decides one morning at breakfast to test fate.

Mattheo’s halfway through stabbing a sausage with the kind of aggression usually reserved for Aurors when Theo leans across the Slytherin table and says with a grin:

“Oi, Matty, pass the pumpkin juice, would you?”

Dead silence.

Blaise chokes on his toast. Enzo drops his fork. Pansy’s jaw unhinges like a cartoon.

Mattheo doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just looks at Theo.

It’s not a glare—it’s worse.

It’s disappointment.

Like a parent who's just realized their kid’s never getting into Hogwarts.

He slides the pumpkin juice over, slow. Deliberate. Like he’s thinking about turning it into poison first.

Then: “Call me that again and I’ll replace your teeth with cursed quartz.”

Theo, smart enough to want to live, nods gravely. “Understood.”

Blaise whispers, “Merlin’s beard, he means it.”

The thing is, Mattheo is a menace. A walking, talking red flag. All dark sarcasm and sharper edges. He wears leather like a second skin and glares like it’s a hobby. But around her? Around his Hufflepuff?

He’s a different breed of dangerous.

Because he’s gentle.

Opens doors for her. Carries her books. Lets her braid little strings into his hair because “it brings out your eyes, Matty.” (He left them in all day. No one said a thing.)

He walks her to Herbology even though it smells like composted nightmares, and he doesn’t complain. Not once.

And when she’s late to meet him outside the library, he doesn't get annoyed. He just leans against the wall, hands in his pockets, pretending not to watch the clock. Pretending not to scan every face until it's hers.

When she finally arrives, out of breath and smiling up at him with that ridiculous Hufflepuff warmth, she says, “Sorry, Matty! Sprout kept us late. Did you wait long?”

And he just shrugs.

“You’re here now.”

(He waited forty-three minutes.)

Back in the common room that night, the boys are still on about it.

“You’re whipped,” Blaise says, looking delighted.

“Utterly,” Enzo adds.

Mattheo doesn’t argue. Just says, calm and casual, like it’s a fact of nature:

“She calls me Matty.”

Theo shudders. “You let her. You like it.”

Mattheo looks up from his book, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.

The dungeons are thick with the scent of damp stone and ego. Mostly his.

You’re laughing at something Theo Nott says—too hard, if Mattheo’s opinion counts for anything, which it should, considering he’s been breathing down your neck in every Potions class for the last three months. Literally. He sits behind you.

You’re both in the library now, huddled over some dusty Arithmancy text like two academics in love. Pathetic. Mattheo watches from the shadows of the bookshelf, arms crossed, jaw tight, blood hot.

The way Theo leans closer. The way you don’t pull back.

He bites the inside of his cheek so hard it stings.

He’s not jealous—don’t be ridiculous. He's annoyed. Irritated. Mildly homicidal.

And maybe a little panicked.

Because it’s one thing to argue with you in class, to steal your quill and whisper things that make you roll your eyes and fight that smile. It’s one thing to stay behind after hours just to correct your essays with extra inked sarcasm. But it’s another thing entirely to see you—his rival, his problem, his obsession—being sweet on someone else.

Especially Theo bloody Nott, who can't spell "Amortentia" without asking twice.

Mattheo slams the book in his hand shut a little too hard. The sound echoes like a gunshot. Your head snaps up.

Eyes meet.

You raise a brow. “Problem?”

“You tell me,” he mutters, stepping into view. “Didn’t realize you were tutoring idiots now.”

Theo snorts. “Good to see you too, Riddle.”

You say nothing. Just stare at Mattheo like you’re trying to read something on his face he hasn’t said out loud yet.

Spoiler alert: you are.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” he says, all teeth, all venom, all cracked dignity. “I’ll just be over there. Seething. Possibly setting Nott’s chair on fire.”

“Subtle,” you deadpan.

He scoffs, turns on his heel, and walks off like he doesn’t care. He does.

—

You find him in the empty Astronomy tower that night, boots up on the desk, hands behind his head, chewing on a sugar quill like it owes him money.

You don’t say anything at first. Just walk in and sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders brush. He doesn’t move away.

“You’re a terrible liar,” you say finally.

He doesn’t look at you. “Am not.”

“Jealousy looks so ugly on you.”

He scoffs. “Not jealous.”

“Mm.”

Silence.

Then, without looking at you, he says, low and rough, “I hate when you laugh at someone else the way you laugh at me.”

Your breath catches.

He adds, quieter: “I hate knowing that one day, someone might actually get to have you. For real. Properly. And it might not be me.”

You blink.

“Oh,” you whisper. It’s stupid how loud your heart is all of a sudden.

Mattheo finally turns to you. His eyes are darker than usual, like the night itself is holding its breath. “You make me crazy. And I think I like it. A little too much.”

The silence stretches. Tense. Fragile.

Then you smile, just barely. “Don’t make me say it first.”

And that’s all he needs.

He kisses you like he’s starved. Like he’s been denying himself oxygen and just remembered how to breathe.

The walls might not talk, but Mattheo Riddle’s mouth certainly does.

Hogwarts happened, and so did Mattheo Riddle.

You weren’t supposed to stay long. A transfer student with a tragic smile and a sharp tongue, newly arrived from Durmstrang with stories folded into your spine like paper cranes—no one quite knew what brought you here, only that you were smart, and secretive, and too tired to pretend you didn’t notice the way people watched you.

They sorted you into Slytherin like it was a dare.

The common room breathed around you like a sleeping serpent: green flames, velvet shadows, the soft hush of gossip spoken in half-truths. You didn’t flinch when people stared. You didn’t smile unless you meant it.

And maybe that’s what Pansy Parkinson liked about you. You weren’t loud. You weren’t sweet. You were precise. Funny in a cutting way. The kind of girl who could gut someone with a sentence and still make it sound like poetry.

You became her favorite project.

By extension, you became part of them—her orbit of Slytherin boys, all leather-bound egos and lazy cruelty, sharp-eyed and silver-tongued. Draco, Theo, Blaise.

And then there was Mattheo.

He was the kind of boy your mother warned you about, not because he was dangerous—though he was—but because he didn’t try to be.

He just was.

He walked like the world owed him something and talked like it never gave him enough. Mattheo had a voice that could melt glass and a laugh that made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. His eyes were too dark, too deep, like they’d swallowed things boys his age weren’t meant to witness.

But what scared you most wasn’t his reputation, or his lineage, or the shadow of his father's name.

It was how quietly he became yours.

It started with a glance that lasted too long. Then a sentence that sounded more like a secret. And then one night, by the Black Lake, when everything shifted.

The others had left—drunken laughter echoing down toward the castle—but Mattheo stayed. You were sitting on the grass, arms looped around your knees, watching the moon ripple in the water like it was trying to remember itself.

He dropped beside you without a word. Close, but not close enough.

“You always this good at being alone?” he asked, voice like smoke.

You didn’t look at him. “Are you always this bad at pretending you don’t want company?”

He laughed, low and real. It made something in you tilt.

He didn’t touch you. Not then. He just sat in the silence you made sacred, letting the world breathe between you.

But something began that night. Something slow and spectral and soft. Like a storm rolling in from somewhere distant, where the sky is still blue but the air already knows how it will end.

You weren’t best friends. You didn’t braid each other’s trauma or fall asleep on each other’s shoulders in the library. It wasn’t like that.

It was more… magnetic. A gravity between atoms. A chemical pull.

He started seeking you out. Not publicly, never performative. But in stolen spaces—the alcove behind the greenhouse, the back row of Defense, the corridors that didn’t echo. He’d press a shoulder to yours, hand you a stolen chocolate frog, ask what you were thinking like he could handle the answer.

“I don’t know what you are,” he said once, voice tired. “But I want to keep finding out.”

You didn’t respond. Just leaned your head back against the stone wall and closed your eyes, pretending the way your heart leapt didn’t mean anything.

But of course it did.

The thing about Mattheo was that he never touched you unless he meant it.

So the first time he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your whole body went still like it had been struck.

The first time he called you trouble, it felt like a confession.

And the first time he kissed you—God, it wasn’t even soft. It was desperate. Like he was trying to swallow the words he didn’t know how to say, like if he kissed you hard enough it would keep you from leaving.

You didn’t leave.

You let him kiss you like that. Let him press his hands to your jaw like you were a fragile thing he didn’t know how to hold. You let him breathe you in like he hadn’t been breathing at all.

But summer came. And so did silence.

He disappeared like smoke—left without warning, without a letter, without a trace.

And maybe it wasn’t personal. Maybe it was something else. Family. Fear. The kind of darkness you weren’t meant to see yet.

But that didn’t stop it from hurting.

You tried not to think about him. Failed, mostly.

Because love with Mattheo Riddle had been like holding a blade to your chest and asking it to remember how to be soft.

And he—he had needed you. Once.

With his friends scattered across the continent in summer homes and high towers, and the weight of his father’s name coiled like a noose around his throat, Mattheo had needed something to stitch himself together again.

And you—you had let him.

Threaded yourself through the seams of his damage, wrapped yourself like ribbon around his ruin. Let him hold you like a secret he was almost ready to tell.

And once he had finished—once you were tied in a pretty little bow around the wreckage of his heart—

He’d cut you off.

But September comes.

And with it: him.

Leaning against the wall outside the Great Hall like he didn’t tear you out of his life like a page he didn’t want to reread. Like the summer hadn’t hollowed you out in his absence.

You pause when you see him. He looks up.

You hold his stare like a blade.

He gives you that smile—the one that means trouble.

“Miss me?” he says, easy.

You blink once. Slow. “Did you miss yourself?”

He steps forward. One step.

“I never stopped,” he says.

You don’t smile. Not yet.

But the storm is coming.

There were only two kinds of chaos in the Slytherin girls’ dorm: exam panic and romantic emergencies. Today was the latter.

The Slytherin girls' dorm looked like a tornado of satin, scarves, and sabotage had blown through. Clothes were everywhere—draped over trunks, tossed on beds, and somehow dangling from the chandelier (you weren’t asking how). A pair of boots had been Transfigured into heels and back again four times. Pansy was rifling through your closet like it owed her money.

"Why do you own so many neutral colors?" she huffed, pulling out a fourth black jumper. "You’re going on a date, not to a funeral."

"It's not a date," you mumbled, sitting cross-legged on your bed, surrounded by discarded scarves and a growing sense of dread. "It's just Hogsmeade."

"With Mattheo Riddle," Daphne pointed out, perched at the edge of Millicent's trunk like a well-dressed gargoyle. "Who has been in love with you since at least third year, possibly earlier. So yes. It’s a date."

You buried your face in your hands. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Millicent casually applied mascara in the mirror. “Oh please, don’t act as if you don’t have him wrapped around your finger. Just exist, he’ll be floored.”

“Mess with him a bit, you know, flirt a little,” Pansy added, tossing a green scarf at you. “Smile like you have secrets. Be a mystery. Boys are idiots. You have to make them work for it.”

“I thought you just said he’s already in love with me?”

“Exactly,” Pansy grinned. “Now we make him suffer.”

“Oh gosh, okay…” 

Pansy hummed, hands on her hips like a fashion dictator. “Turn around. Slowly.”

You did a spin, awkwardly, holding the hem of your coat. “Girlies… I feel like I’m going to a Ministry interview.”

“You look like the moment,” Daphne said, flopping backwards onto her bed with a dreamy sigh. “Matty is going to lose all motor function. I give him three minutes before he knocks over a butterbeer.”

“I give him two,” Millicent chimed in from the vanity, expertly applying lip gloss. “He nearly fell off a bench when you said 'good morning' last week.”

“Wait!” Daphne gasped. “Do the eyeliner thing.”

“Oh my God, do the eyeliner thing,” Millicent echoed, spinning around dramatically. “The wing that says ‘I’m hot but dangerous.’”

You gave them a look. “I don’t even know if I want to wear eyeliner.”

“Too bad,” Pansy declared, already pulling out her wand. “We’re weaponizing your cheekbones today.”

While they took turns fluffing your hair and choosing the perfect coat that said ‘I’m effortlessly beautiful but also cold enough that maybe you’ll offer me your scarf’, you tried to breathe.

“What if I say something stupid?” you muttered. “What if I trip? Or spill butterbeer? Or call him a comforting temperature like he did to me?”

The room howled.

Pansy choked on laughter. “He really said that. I was there. It was poetic.”

“He said it with his whole chest,” Daphne said, wiping tears of laughter. “Like he meant it deeply.”

Millicent snorted. “You are literally fine. You could throw a snowball at his face and he’d still call you the love of his life.”

“Okay,” Pansy said, dramatically stepping back to survey you like a painting. “You’re done. You look radiant. Magical. Vaguely intimidating. Perfect.”

You looked in the mirror. Maybe… maybe you did look kinda cute.

Daphne smiled. “He’s going to combust.”

“And if he doesn’t,” Pansy added sweetly, “we will.”

A pause.

“…What do I even say to him?” you whispered.

Pansy tossed you your bag. “Easy. Smile, say hi, and then let the power of that coat do the rest.”

“And remember,” Millicent called as you walked out the door, “if he faints—you win.”

Meanwhile, Mattheo Riddle had never been this nervous in his life.

He’d fought off cursed creatures. He’d nearly failed fifth-year Potions. Once, he’d even argued with McGonagall and lived. But this? Waiting for you in the common room?

Absolute psychological warfare.

He was currently standing near the fireplace, shifting his weight from foot to foot like the floor was lava and he hadn’t quite chosen which stone would kill him less.

“I can’t breathe,” he muttered, adjusting his collar for the twelfth time.

“You’re literally breathing,” Blaise said from the sofa, flipping through a Quidditch magazine. “Loudly.”

“I look like a funeral procession,” Mattheo groaned, yanking at his black coat.

“You are a funeral procession,” Theo replied dryly. “But make it romantic. Also, you look fine.”

“Fine?” Mattheo looked panicked. “Not good?”

“You look like you moisturized,” Enzo offered helpfully. “That’s, like, a seven out of ten already.”

“I’m not trying to look moisturized, I’m trying to look… cool. Normal. Like a person who doesn’t black out every time she says my name.”

“Too late,” Draco muttered from the armchair, sipping coffee and radiating ‘why am I here’ energy.

Mattheo collapsed into a chair, groaning into his hands. “I’m going to say something stupid. Again. Like that time I told her she looked warm.”

“Iconic moment in romantic history,” Theo nodded solemnly. “We should frame it.”

“I could just—fake the flu,” Mattheo muttered. “Say I have… dragonpox. Or sudden-onset unconsciousness.”

“She’s literally getting ready right now,” Blaise said, not looking up. “Abort the mission and you’ll die. We will kill you. Emotionally. And possibly physically.”

Enzo leaned in, wide-eyed. “What if she doesn’t come?”

Everyone stared at him.

Draco threw a cushion at his head. “You absolute troll.”

“Listen,” Theo said, sitting upright now, “we have prepped for this. We trained for this. You’ve practiced your smile—”

“I look deranged when I smile,” Mattheo muttered into his hands.

“—and you’ve got talking points,” Theo continued, ignoring him. “Remember the script: ask how she’s been, compliment the outfit, don’t stare at her mouth too much—”

Mattheo groaned again, slumping deeper into the chair. “What if I just never go on dates? Like ever again. Maybe I’ll take a vow of solitude. Move into the forest. Raise squirrels.”

“You’ve got this, mate,” Blaise said, finally putting the magazine down. “You’re Mattheo Riddle. You’re brooding, mysterious, kinda hot when you’re not self-destructing. She likes you.”

Draco squinted. “I’d argue despite all of that, not because of.”

Suddenly, Blaise looked up and grinned. “She’s coming.”

Mattheo shot to his feet so fast he knocked over the table. “WHAT?”

“I said, she’s coming,” Blaise repeated, way too casually for someone who had just detonated a bomb.

Mattheo began rapidly checking every pocket for absolutely nothing. “Okay. Okay okay okay. Do I look sweaty? I feel sweaty. I am sweaty.”

“Mattheo,” Theo said, standing beside him and placing both hands firmly on his shoulders. “Pull it together. Be normal. Or at least pretend. Say hi. Breathe. Compliment her. Maybe don’t pass out.”

“And no ‘warm’ comments this time,” Draco added. “Seriously.”

Just then, the common room door creaked open.

You stepped inside.

Mattheo turned around, caught sight of you—and went completely, terrifyingly, silent.

His jaw moved. No sound came out. His brain had left the building.

You smiled at him gently, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

“Hi, Mattheo.”

And that’s when Mattheo—poor, cursed boy—whispered back:

“…Hi. You… you look like a… really… nice temperature today.”

Theo audibly slapped his own forehead.

You tilted your head, utterly amused.

“Thanks…?” you replied slowly, trying not to laugh and failing spectacularly. “You, uh… look like a person who definitely practices casual greetings in the mirror.”

Mattheo looked mortified.

“Did Blaise tell you that?!” he gasped.

You raised a brow. “So it’s true?”

“NO— I mean… no comment,” he mumbled, already red to the tips of his ears.

From behind the nearest bookcase, a small shuffle.

Pansy was crouched next to Daphne and Millicent, all three girls squished together like a pack of gossiping meerkats.

“She said mirror,” Pansy hissed. “That’s a direct hit!”

“She’s teasing him!” Daphne squealed.

“She’s flirting, you uncultured salamander,” Pansy corrected.

Millicent shushed them both with a fistful of Bertie Bott’s Beans. “Eat and spy. Quietly!”

Not far away, in the boys’ hallway nook, Theo was pressed to the wall like a spy in a muggle war film.

“We are so close to Phase Seven: Confident Sidewalk Banter,” he whispered into his enchanted notepad.

Enzo adjusted the tiny pair of Omnioculars he had definitely stolen from a second-year. “Shut up!”

Draco, from behind a curtain: “They haven’t even left the room. This is going to take ten years.”

Back in the main area, Mattheo had finally pulled himself together enough to offer you his hand.

“Ready?” he asked, voice still a little soft around the edges.

You smiled, slipping your fingers into his without hesitation. “Let’s go, temperature boy.”

Mattheo made a soft wheezing noise that was probably meant to be a laugh. “That’s gonna stick, isn’t it?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you teased, giving his hand a squeeze. “You branded yourself.”

As the two of you exited the common room, hands still linked, both squads exploded into frenzied celebration.

“THEY’RE HOLDING HANDS,” Pansy shrieked into a rolled-up parchment.

Draco sighed loudly from the couch. “I’m surrounded by lunatics.”

“Do we follow?” Millicent asked, already stuffing on her boots.

“Yes,” said Pansy. “But stealthily. Like cool, supportive spies.”

Daphne nodded solemnly. “Like the morally confused observers we are.”

Meanwhile, down the corridor, Mattheo and you strolled side-by-side, your steps syncing up naturally.

He glanced over. “You smell… nice.”

You blinked at him.

“…Not like. Soap,” he added. “I mean, not just soap. More like… person. In a good way. Not like a human smell. Just—like… flower-person?”

You were smiling so hard you had to bite your lip to contain it.

“You’re really bad at compliments,” you whispered fondly.

“Yeah,” Mattheo groaned. “I know.”

You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s charming.

Mattheo turned a deeper shade of crimson. 

And from fifty feet behind, Pansy ducked into a barrel as Blaise whispered into Theo’s ear:

“Ten galleons says he falls on his arse trying to open a door for her.”

Theo: “Deal.”

The two of you strolled through the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade, your gloved hands brushing occasionally as Mattheo kept trying to not overthink his walking pace.

You, on the other hand, were playing it cool. You’d layered your scarf just right, boots clicking softly, your cheeks pink from the chill. You caught him looking at you three times in the span of a minute. He looked away all three times.

“So,” you said lightly. “What’s the plan? Butterbeer? Wandering until one of us panics and suggests an owl adoption?”

Mattheo laughed — a real one this time. “Let’s aim for butterbeer and mild panic. Keep expectations realistic.”

You ducked your head to hide a smile. He was trying so hard. And honestly? He was doing great.

You both slipped into The Three Broomsticks, the warm scent of cinnamon and roasted nuts immediately wrapping around you. It was busy, but cozy — couples tucked in booths, students huddled near windows, Madam Rosmerta moving like clockwork behind the bar.

You picked a small table near the fireplace.

And unknown to you both, approximately four tables away, behind a stack of decorative barrels, were the two stealth squads.

Recon Team Alpha: Pansy, Daphne, Millicent. Camouflaged with floating menus and absolutely zero discretion.

Recon Team Beta: Theo, Blaise, Enzo. Pretending to be in a very serious conversation about broomstick insurance policies.

“What do you think is happening?” Pansy whispered, barely glancing over her menu and trying to eavesdrop the conversation, although she should barely listen to them.

“They’re sitting closer than regulation dating distance,” Daphne whispered.

Millicent took notes in her planner. “So they’re still not holding hands? This guy is mad slow…”

Meanwhile at your table, Mattheo cleared his throat. “So... this is nice, right? Not too weird?”

You grinned. “Extremely weird. But in a good way.”

He grinned back, then glanced down as the butterbeer arrived. “I thought you might want the frothy kind. With cinnamon.”

You blinked. “You remembered that?”

Mattheo shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it off, but his ears were turning pink again. “You mentioned it once. After class. Thought it was... a cute detail.”

Your heart might have skipped a beat. Just a small one. You picked up the mug, smiling into the steam.

“You’re full of surprises.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he muttered. “I’ve got a reputation to ruin.”

Somewhere behind you, Theo whispered, “He’s doing it. He’s being normal.”

Blaise nodded solemnly. “He even held eye contact for a full seven seconds.”

“We trained him well,” Enzo added, sipping dramatically from a sugar-rimmed glass.

Back at the table, Mattheo gently knocked his boot against yours under the table — once, then again when you didn’t react.

You raised a brow.

“Just making sure you're real,” he said casually. “Thought maybe I hallucinated you agreeing to this date.”

You gave him a mock glare. “This isn’t a hallucination.”

He smiled crookedly. “Then I must be the luckiest bloke in this freezing village.”

You stared at him for a moment. “That was dangerously close to being smooth.”

“Shocking,” he muttered. “Maybe Blaise slipped something in my tea.”