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riddlemelater-recs · 11 days ago

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First of all, I am bloody obsessed with stripper!reader and bartender/manager!mattheo. I would absolutely eat up another drabble about them, especially the tension between them when they first met👀?

There’s so many moments within this that your writing is just beautiful, if I mentioned them ALL it’d be a quote of the whole text, so I’ll settle for a select few of my favourites;

“The pole, well it's more like an altar; your body swaying and slicing through the heavy hazy of slurred catcalls, whistles and grasping hands all desperate for a few minutes of your attention.”

Now, I’m a slut for a bit of religious imagery, so instantly this stood out to me and I can’t not talk about it. The vibe you create for Stripper!Reader isn’t just described or implied, it’s woven into the text. I love that comparison of the pole to an alter, the mix of sin and religion will always fascinate me. There’s soooo much I could get into, I’ll save you the English degree analysis. And, your depiction of the club is spot on— It feels like one of those places you’ve heard of, but have never dared go near. It’s just the right level of sleaze to be unsettling, and comes to life so vividly!

“The moves you make are as graceful as they are lethal; bending, twisting, contorting, upside down, right way up, high and low, offering up just enough to keep the pack of wolves who make up the crowd ravenous.”

Same paragraph, and all I can say is I want stripper!reader on an astronomical scale. She knows the effect she has on men, she’s aware of her body and how to use it to her advantage, and it’s so sexy.

“"You know the club rules. You helped create them; you enforce th-."

“Fuck the rules",”

THIS DIALOGUE 🫠🫠🫠🫠I am such a big fan of the “fuck it” trope, idc argue with the wall it’s hot. We all love a bad boy though, don’t we?

Folding his arms across the bar in front of him, Mattheo rests his chin on his wrists

Genuinely if someone did this to me I’d be flabbergasted, if this isn’t the sexiest thing ever idk what is. No idea how to describe it, but I can almost see the cocky smirk, the glint in his eyes as he looks up through his lashes, I’m giggling n shit in bed rn. Something about a man who’s bod language is openly comfortable, borderline cocky, whilst flirting 🥵🥵🥵

“Taking a deep breath in, you nod, picking up the cherry from your drink to pop between your lips and suck on it in a way Matthe could imagine you sucking on something else.”

I am, once again, down b a d for stripper!reader. Mattheo if you don’t tear her clothes off, I will.

Once again this is simply just a few of my favourite parts, but this is such a scrumptious au and it will be on my mind for all eternity. <3

🖤 alleyways. mattheo riddle🖤 stripper!reader x bartender!mattheo. went back to my roots for this one. p in v. fingering. flirting. mdni. pour yourself a martini to stay classy (2.5k).

Just like every other night that you’re here, the club is hot; pulsing with the heartbeat of a rabid beast as the music playing over the speaker system thrums chaotically, rhythms of both desperation and defiance. It vibrates through the walls, along beneath the sticky wooden floors, up through the heels you’re wearing you know are far too uncomfortable to keep you on your feet all night and into your bones like fire. The air surrounding you is thick with that kind of dry spilled liquor, faint sweat mixed with rot smell, unique to the place you used to spend hours a night trying to scrub off your skin. All this, it’s haloed and trapped by the dim flickering of deep scarlet neon lights that fade and buzz across the club like a thousand dying fireflies, or perhaps it’s more poetically akin to how your soul is feeling.

With a heavy sigh, you adjust the frayed straps of your costume that you really should have taken the time to resew yet are at the point where you just can’t be bothered. The thin whisp shrouds of black satin and shredded fishnet you’re in cling to your skin as less of a garment and more of a dare. Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. That’s your latest mantra against everything you’re feeling right now. The heat, the sweat, the shameless scraps of dignity you have left. Two weeks until you’re out of this grime soaked purgatory; released from dancing to fund a life of crisp textbooks in order to obtain a college degree and catapulted into a world where your worth will no longer be measured by crumpled bills which are thrown at you on stage, or shoved into the strappy lace material of your thong.

Across the other side of the club, Mattheo reigns behind the bar as he once always did – a prince in a kingdom of sin and filth. He’s the manager now, you’ve watched him work his way up from busboy to big boss, but tonight, he’s slipped back into his old ways, pouring shots and mixing cocktails with a precision that’s almost hypnotic; his hands moving like they’re threading spells although you know where they’d rather be. The black button up shirt he wears hangs open, revealing scars that coil across his chest that make your mouth both dry and water. Each line an etching story of menace and survival.

When his gaze catches yours, there’s an undeniable spark in his eyes which sears against your skin. Warming you. Stripping you bare without a single word being said. Not that there’s much left to come off. For years, the two of you have dodged this little dance on the edge you’ve had with one another. It all began when you took up swinging around the pole to claw your way through the hefty amount of tuition you needed to pay. Unfortunately, your lack of trust fund wouldn’t help, so instead you turned to a not so savoury option where you could use your assets so to speak to help you get ahead. Two weeks left – a soiree style graduation – no financial burden – freedom. Or so you thought. Usually, things are cordial between the two of you; a sweet smile, a few exchanged words, a cheeky shot once you are off stage but tonight, the pull between you both for whatever reason is near magnetic. At least that’s how you feel it – you wonder if he does the same.

Onstage, you transform. You’re not that sweet little college girl anymore but an illusion and allure that people can’t ignore. The pole, well it’s more like an altar; your body swaying and slicing through the heavy hazy of slurred catcalls, whistles and grasping hands all desperate for a few minutes of your attention. The moves you make are as graceful as they are lethal; bending, twisting, contorting, upside down, right way up, high and low, offering up just enough to keep the pack of wolves who make up the crowd ravenous. Before your set is even due to finish, bills flutter into your waistband and across the stage, a papertrail of undeniable hunger you’re happy to extort but your mind, well it’s only on one guy. One man. One… manager turned bartender for the night. You try to push him name to the side and remember why you started this – for money, not love, not romance, not lust. You’re too good to be here. Surely. This job was nothing more than a ticket out of financial hell; but really, every dollar you’ve made since working here feels like a ghost compared to the heat of Mattheo’s stare.

Once your set is over; skin gleaming with another sheet of delicate sweat, you hop off stage, kicking off those heels and slip into trainers your ankles are fucking grateful for. Slinking an oversized hoodie over your shoulders to zip up and conceal this aberration of a costume you’re in, you make your way across the battlefield of the club floor towards the bar – patrons drinks spilling and pooling like blood, broken glass crunching underfoot.

Mattheo’s busy pouring another drink for some bleary-eyed fool who happens to look at you and smile thinking that he might have a slim chance, but the sound of the cup being slammed against the bar top suggests to this fool, otherwise. “Anything else?” The two words are enough to get this guy to leave you momentarily in peace. Claiming a seat up on a barstool; the cracked black vinyl biting into the back of your thighs, Mattheo slides your signature drink your way. A splash of vodka mixed with raspberry lemonade and a cherry on top shaded by a tiny yellow paper umbrella. The same thing you’ve had every night after your set that he made you once on a whim as an escapism. You take a sip, the alcohol burning against the back of your throat pleasantly before making a sound that isn’t quite a sigh of relief but not quite a sigh of tiring.

“Rough night?” You can almost taste the edges of his words that come out low, gruff. “Same sleaze, slightly new faces”, you reply with a shrug; the move allowing your hoodie to slip from your shoulders to tease the lace you’ve got hidden beneath. “You holding up alright? I haven’t seen you behind the bar in months.”

“Barely”, the corners of his lips curl into a smirk that’s sharp – that’s wicked; sinful. “You up there, moving like that… should be classed as a felony.”

“Careful, Riddle.” Leaning forward, you take another sip of your drink, this time through the straw he’s conveniently reached over to slip in and keep your gaze firmly on him. “You know the club rules. You helped create them; you enforce th-.”

“Fuck the rules”, he counters before you’ve even got a chance to finish your sentence. Folding his arms across the bar in front of him, Mattheo rests his chin on his wrists – he’s close enough that you can smell his cologne which is heaven sent compared to the vileness of the club and that smirk he was wearing before, turns from wicked to want. “You know exactly what you do to me. Even if we’ve never really spoken about it.”

That fine line you’ve both walked for weeks, months, years is so very close to delicately snapping. The space between you both crackling with an electric carnage. You should leave, thank him for the drink; smile politely, scamper off to hide in the dressing room and call a cab to take you back to your place before the end of his shift to keep this thing – whatever it is – clean between the two of you, but you don’t. at least not willingly. Taking a deep breath in, you nod, picking up the cherry from your drink to pop between your lips and suck on it in a way Mattheo could imagine you sucking on something else.

“Oh really? Well in that case – are you going to do anything about it or just keep pouring drinks and pining and my guess – pulling it when you’re home alone thinking about me..”

Grabbing your wrist, Mattheo tugs you half over the bar; your chest pressing into the sticky wood and rubber mat you weren’t expecting to feel. Your hoodie and bra begin to dampen as his breath, ragged and hot coats your face warm causing the thong you’re wearing to dampen aswell.

“Maybe I should take you right here; crowd or not.” “Oh really, Riddle? I’d like to see you try.”

He nods, tilting his head towards the exit at the back of the club; not a gesture, more of a command and within seconds you’re off the stool and on your feet, making your way through the clubs guts with your hand laced into his, the roar of the crowd welcoming another dancer up onto the stage spilling silently into the night.

The alley way he drags you out to looms like a cathedral around you of decaying brick walls slick with only god knows what, the air thick with a trickle of rain and ruin. If it weren’t for the security cameras in the managers office meaning you’d be filming your own porno, your first guess would have been that Mattheo would have taken you there but no – this… this grime, this filth, this refuse is perfect. His hands are on you, rough and urgent, pinning you to the cold brick just beside the door as his lips claim yours for a kiss that’s most than just fuelled by hunger.

“Y’killing me”, he manages to whimper across your jaw, lips lingering down to the crook of your neck as he unzips your hoodie, flinging it wide open as his hands find their way to your hips to bruise the skin as he yanks you off the wall up against him. “Every fucking night you’re here – I have to watch you, that body, that walk, that smirk… you know exactly what you fucking do. Killing me girl; killing me.”

Without prompt, you arch into him with a moan; head tilting back against the wall, nails carving lines down his shoulders and across his chest. Your hands drop down to his waist to fumble his belt free that you’ve envisioned doing one too many times before as that metallic clink rings deep into the night.

“So do something about it then..”

Mattheo doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t faulter. Takes your words as confirmation and consent that you’re happy for him to do as he pleases and rips your thong aside, tearing at the fishnet to find the heat you’ve got swelling up between your thighs. Your eyes roll back as a half breath escapes you, his fingers working against your clit and between your folds with a skill that’s close to being devastating. As his teeth sink into your skin, leaving an instant bruise that will plume a pretty branded shade of purple and disgrace you feel yourself further give in.

“You’re fucking soaked. Been thinking of this for a while now, haven’t you?” “Matthe-.” “Of me fucking you raw in this dump.” “I-…” “Stop talking, start screaming.”

Shoving his jeans down just low enough, Mattheo’s hands drop to your ass, lifting you with ease until your legs lock around his waist giving him the perfect excuse to drive into you with a single savage thrust that stretches you with a sweet ache and has you doing exactly as he wants. Screaming. His name, profanities, a single gasped breath which doubles as a plea for desire, for need. Each thrust his relentless, his rhythm merciless; hips clashing against your own like a penance for every fucking night you’ve taunted him up until now. You become little more than a symphony of gasps and cries as your nails claw down his back; the thrum of the club inside drinking in your sounds as he takes you like he’s etching a memory into your core.

“Two – weeks – “, you huff and gasp; clinging onto him as your world begins to tilt; his thrusts sending you over the edge. “…and – I’m gone.. y-y-you gonna miss me?”

He manages little more than the sound of a snarl as a hand of his fists into your hair, pulling your head back so that your eyes meet his, wild and unyielding.

“You really think you’re gonna escape all this?”, he pants with a chuckle as his cock continues to fill you. “That this world is going to let you go so easily? I’m going to find you. Fuck you on that pristine little corporate desk you’re always talking about like a daydream and make you scream my name into your new little world.”

A giggle escapes you, not for long though; cut short as you’re slammed up back against the wall, leg hitched a little higher to allow his cock to hit in deeper, needier. Your spine shivers; not from the cold but from how good you feel, before your drop your head and bite into the fabric of his shirt to try and stifle a part of your next scream. Your last scream. Mattheo follows, thrusting deep, a guttural curse pulled from deep within his chest as he spills into you, marking you his own in this filthy sanctum. You’re further sweat drenched than you were before; shaking. Your breathing begins to match his, falling into sync as the last few minutes turn into a firm reality. Heart racing; Mattheo’s hands stay firm on your hips, anchoring you into time like you might dissolve if he lets go. Not that he wants to. Not yet anyway.

“Really?”, you whimper quietly; tongue poking out to swipe across your bottom lip before you bite it and smile, sweet rather than suggestive. “You’d fuck me on my ‘pristine little corporate desk’?”

He shrugs playfully with a smile so beautiful that could make the devil himself cry. “I mean… you could always come back to the alley.”

“How about something sanitary – like a bedroom?”, you ask. “A little cliché.” “You could stay the night, if you wanted to.” “At yours? Sure.”

Your lips meet his for a peck that’s absolutely innocent. For a single moment, that love, romance, lust nonsense you convinced yourself wouldn’t exist at the club does and you nod in response; words failing to convey what’s going on inside your head as your feet find the ground again. Zipping up your hoodie and watching Mattheo zip up his jeans with a smirk, you both step back into the clubs mire; feeling that this stage is well, maybe not so much fleeting as you’d imagined. Two weeks. Two weeks. Two weeks. Your mantra plays over and over inside your head.

Two weeks and you’d be gone. Two weeks and you’d have a fresh start, a new life, a different perspective on things. Two weeks and this place will hopefully be nothing more than a memory – but Mattheo, fuck, he’s a fever that you can’t sweat out and a thought that you won’t shake. A hunger than you’ll always seek and perhaps now fortunately enough, a piece of his hell that you’ll carry on past just tonight.

unedited - but i just needed to bite the bullet and post before my brain got in the way. if there are any issues, let me know. for @i-await sorry i kept you waiting this long; and a thanks to @riddlemelater and @belovedenzo for help with some dialogue selection xoxo

#moscatosin #mattheo riddle recs #riddlemelater-recs

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riddlemelater-recs · 17 days ago

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NO THOSE LAST TWO PARAGRAPHS. Oh when I catch you moscatosin 😤☹️

“He was a boy that was always the most beautiful kind of wrong. Too quiet, too clever, too carved from the shadows of unrest to ever be good for you— but you clung to him anyway; like a fever dream, like a love sick puppy, like a cliffs edge.”

literally sobbing because this is SO Theo. You have such a beautiful way with words, consider me envious!! Plus, I’m such a sucker for tragic parings/lost love in angst, and this was just the right amount of agony to top off a quiet Saturday night. Consider my feelings hurt. (In the best way.)

“Because you loved him in it. / Because you loved him.”

Ho did you just stab me? No foreplay or anything just stuck it right in me? You’re telling me she’s actively hurting, but it’s Theo’s reality and she’s just OKAY with it hurting because it’s him. Oh I am sick. Just go ahead and twist that knife harder

Your mind never disappoints my darling, long live you writing angst that fucks up my day in the best possible way. I LOVE YOU.

🖤 cold. theodore nott 🖤 post wizarding war. angst. lost love. drabble. spiced mead in a bronze mug.

You don’t say his name anymore. It just rots in the back of your throat all bitter and bleak like what was one your favourite spell you spoken too often. Too softly. As if it wouldn’t turn on you, but unfortunately, it did. He did. Hell; and now all you have left are the memories and ruins of him, catalogued away into the corners of your mind like broken glass that you keep stepping on even though there’s a clear path for your escape.

Most nights, you wake up in a cold sweat; choking on smoke – not from the war, no not anymore; it had been years, but from the last look that Theodore gave you. it was like he knew he was about to vanish. Like he wanted to. Like he both had and yet didn’t have a choice.

You often wondered if he hated you for surviving.

He was a boy that was always the most beautiful kind of wrong. Too quiet, too clever, too carved from the shadows of unrest to ever be good for you – but you clung to him anyway; like a fever dream, like a love sick puppy, like a cliff’s edge. He never asked you to. He never begged. He just stood there, all shattered in decisions that other people had made which clearly affected him and you, you let yourself burn not only in his presence but just by hearing his name.

It should have been you that left. Turned on your heels and walked away but no. it was him. It’s like the world is too loud now. Too bright. Too clean. Empty.

The castle was rebuilt. They repaired the stone walls and scrubbed the blood from the floors. They planted seeds of wildflowers to blossom beautifully in the places that bodies fell. Everything was fixed. Everything except for you. No one looked twice when you walked away from the ministry's fake smiles; the award ceremonies for fighting at the time what felt on the right side of the war. The hollow medals you received – they did little to mask your empty palms, you broken heart, your mouth sewn permanently shut with grief.

You miss the ways things felt before the world ended that day. When your thoughts and sins were still blooming. When his hand was still in yours and the darkness, the bleakness, the loneliness of anything that came your way didn’t frighten you – because he lived in it. Because he knew no other way.

Because you loved him in it. Because you loved him.

He’s gone now – a boy you’ll never forget and you’re nothing but ash trapped within a girls shape. You drag yourself through days that don’t feel like they belong to you; wearing a skin that remembers his touch oh too well. Perhaps one day you’ll cross paths again. See him in front of you rather than in newspapers or listed on court records or maybe not trapped within your dreams when you try to sleep.

Maybe he’ll look older. Colder. Like he’s finally become the man he was always afraid that he’d be.

Does he still keep your photograph hidden in his wallet the way you still whisper his name at night when you’re not thinking against cold pillows and empty sheets.

Theodore Nott was always the wrong kind of beautiful for this world; but to you… he was and still is everything.

#moscatosin #theodore nott recs

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riddlemelater-recs · 18 days ago

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Just a tad obsessed with whimpering, down bad Mattheo— And the way he’s only vulnerable around you 🫠 Also, I feel like there’s not enough role reversed Mattheo out there, because yes, I can totally see dom!Mattheo as a concept. But, it’s so believable to his character to be absolutely enthralled with the girl he loves!!

The dialogue is amazing too, so real and smooth. Obsessed.

literally me reading this ^

Big Bad Baby ; MR

Summary : It's always amusing to you that people coward in fear when your boyfriend walks in a room, because when it's just him he's nothing but putty in your hands.

!Warnings! : slight sub! mattheo, mentions of violence, NSFW (18+ only!), riding, dirty talk, praise kink, p n v, unprotected sex, power play, role reversal, language

—————

Mattheo Riddle has never walked into a room he couldn't command, words died on people's tongues the second he walks into a room. He's dangerous, never backs down and always one to instigate.

But right now?

He was flat on his back, fists curled tight in the sheets, dark curls stuck to his sweat-slicked forehead, and whimpering your name.

You grinned down at him from where you straddled his hips, your top discarded somewhere across the room. He was staring up at you like you were divine — like you’d ruined him and he was begging for more.

“Fuck—baby, baby, please,” Mattheo groaned, voice breaking as you sank down on him again. “You’re gonna kill me, I swear to god—”

You rocked your hips slow, dragging every sound out of him. His hands flew to your thighs, gripping like he didn’t know whether to stop you or pull you faster. His control — the thing everyone was so scared of — was shattered beneath your touch.

“You say that every time,” you teased, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, watching the way he twitched under you. “Still haven’t died yet.”

His head fell back with a guttural moan. “You’re evil,” he gasped. “So fucking tight, you don’t even know—shit—just like that, keep going—”

You couldn’t help the soft laugh that slipped from your lips. “Hard to believe you’re the same guy who made a sixth year cry last week just by looking at him.”

He looked at you then — wrecked, flushed, panting — and grinned, wide and wolfish. “I’d cry too if you left me like this.”

Your hips stilled.

“Don’t.” His hands flew up, grasping at your waist, already frantic. “Don’t stop, I swear to Merlin—baby, please, you own me, alright? I’ll get on my knees, I’ll do anything, I’ll—fuck—”

You leaned forward, pressing a kiss just under his ear. “You’re so loud for someone so terrifying.”

He shuddered. “Only for you,” he breathed. “You take your top off and my brain just—gone. It’s fucking gone.”

You clenched around him just to prove your point, and he swore—loud, guttural, filthy.

“Yeah,” you whispered, lips brushing his. “Putty in my hands.”

He groaned your name like a prayer and a curse all at once, completely undone beneath you — and exactly where he wanted to be.

Your rhythm doesn't stop, losing yourself in every little whimper that comes out of his mouth.

Mattheo’s head is thrown back, jaw clenched, chest heaving beneath you — and you’re already breathless from how many times he’s told you how good you feel, how he’s going to come just from how you look above him.

And then—knock knock.

The door.

You freeze for half a second. He doesn’t.

Mattheo’s eyes snap open, feral and sharp — but there’s panic under the surface. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop—”

Knock knock knock.

He lets out a ragged breath, hands flying up to pull you forward, pressing your chest flush to his.

“Stay quiet, baby,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “I’ve got it.”

And then—voice low, smooth, deadly:

“What.”

A pause on the other side of the door. Someone clears their throat.

“Uh—Mattheo? Zabini’s looking for you. He said to meet in the Slytherin common—”

Mattheo cuts him off, sharp and bored. “Tell Blaise if he wants something from me, he can crawl to the Astronomy Tower and scream it into the fucking sky.”

Another awkward pause.

“Right. Uh. Sure.”

The footsteps retreat. The silence settles.

And then—

You clench around him again, and Mattheo’s head hits the pillow with a thump.

“Fuck—fuck, baby,” he groans, hands gripping your hips tight. “You’re evil. You’re so fucking evil, holy shit—”

You start moving again, and the snarl he had a second ago melts into a broken moan.

“Good girl. My perfect fucking girl—doing so good for me, yeah? You wanted to ruin me, didn’t you? Wanted to see me lose it?”

You nod, but it’s breathless, almost dazed, because he’s rambling now, praising you like you invented pleasure.

“All mine, yeah? No one else gets to see you like this, ride me like this—fuck, you’re unreal—please, don’t stop, I’ll give you anything, I swear—”

He’s whimpering again.

That same Mattheo Riddle who everyone fears is under you, trembling, praising your name like it’s the only word he knows, trying not to come until you say he can.

And god, the second you whisper, “Come for me, Matty,”—

—he does.

Loud. Messy. Unapologetically yours.

#sslytherinslut #mattheo riddle recs

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riddlemelater-recs · 20 days ago

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This is so immaculately written and the concept is gorgeous 🫶

ferrari

as part of a social visit, you spend a fortnight at an English politician's estate with his god-awful son (politician's son!theo x american socialite!reader)

a/n - this fic took sooo long im so excited to publish it!!! also im such a sucker for the trope where one half of a couple is THE most insidious hater with absolutely no chill but then halfway through they start feeling like...why's the other person kinda........hmmmmmmm (p.s. this started off inspired by the song by the neighbourhood but idk if i would call this a songfic ehehe enjoyy)

tropes/warnings - enemies to lovers, forced proximity, fluff/banter, mildly british-phobic, incorrect descriptions of ferraris as manual (god i researched too much about ferraris against my will also i apologise for the inconsistencies car/f1 girlies)

word count - 5.8k

taglist - @kandralice @justme989898 @iamheretoread1234 @allie-sturns @hzdhrtss @friedfreyfries @bushnellswife @rose-of-the-grave @thaliashifts @pariahsparadise @babene-e @fratbrochrisgf @user089167

A car.

A yellow car.

A bright, disgusting, honest-to-god canary yellow Ferrari was peeling into the driveway at the ungodly hour of a quarter to 7 in the morning.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes. Most of yesterday had passed in an exhausting blur, given how jet-lagged you were, but this took the cake. You blinked, opening your eyes further. The car was still there, as loud and insecurely showy as it had been at first glance.

Perhaps your eyes hadn't adjusted to the English countryside gloom. Yes, that had to be it. You were sure that in proper daylight, the car would appear a luxurious cream, or perhaps even an elegant taupe.

Once you had dressed and crept downstairs, shivering in the early morning chill that blanketed the vast estate, a butler informed you that Master Nott would be down shortly to join you for breakfast. But it wasn't the genteel, elderly man that had welcomed you and your father the day before that walked in.

"Apologies for my absence yesterday," said the man walking towards the breakfast table, fiddling with a button. "I hope my father wasn't too boring. I was occupied with some other business. Theodore Nott. Junior."

He stuck out a hand at the last bit, and you eyed it with a restrained distaste. Perhaps it was just the cynic in you, but something about his demeanour felt politically calibrated to dazzle you. The apple clearly didn't fall far from the tree - Theo Nott Jr. was every bit his father's son. However, this Theodore appeared more charismatic and charming, whereas his father seemed more reserved and cordial.

And yet, there was something untrustworthy about his smile. What kind of business did he occupy himself with?

"So, Theodore," you asked as you buttered a piece of toast, "what do you like to do for pleasure?"

"Nothing much out of the ordinary - golfing, collecting art, skiing. I enjoy a good holiday every now and then."

Your lips quirked a little at that. Calling it 'a little holiday every now and then' was putting it lightly, you decided. Theodore Nott Jr. had a reputation that could easily rival any of your more scandalous counterparts. It seemed like all he did was travel, jet-setting from one location to the next, finding ever-brilliant ways of dragging his father's name in the mud. Given his father's staunch refusal to comment on his son's debaucherous behaviours, you guessed there was no love lost between the two.

"Oh, and cars," Theo continued obliviously. "I do like cars."

You placed your toast down, frowning.

"Your business yesterday. It wouldn't have had anything to do with that...you know...the yellow..." you trailed off, motioning with the butter knife.

Theo looked surprised. The mildly curious look on his face felt miles more genuine than his unscrupulous smile just minutes ago. The curve of his lips hinted at something - like a smile, but not quite.

"Your bedroom does overlook the driveway, doesn't it? But yes - I was in town yesterday afternoon to pick up my new car." Misreading your curiosity as interest, he probed further. "Why? Do you like it?"

You thought back to the grotesquely gleaming vehicle. You barely held back from pulling an unbecoming face.

"Car is...a strong word for that monstrosity."

Theo's lips parted, giving you the impression that he had a dozen replies on the tip of his tongue, but no voice for any of them.

"Well. You Americans have the strangest ways of describing classics."

You raised your eyebrows. "Classic? Little Women is a classic. That...is a Colleen Hoover book at best."

Theo watched you curiously, uncomprehending.

"What? You're not up to date on contemporary unfeminist literature?"

From the blank look on his face, the quip was clearly lost on him. Merlin, was he going to be this slow the entire visit?

"When Father mentioned contacting a translator, I assumed he was having a laugh," the boy said, prying open a tiny jar of honey. "Now, I'm not so sure."

The two of you endured a painfully awkward meal and you excused yourself at the first available opportunity, taking care not to seem overly eager to leave the room. Behind you, you heard a faint clink of china and a muttered, sardonic echo.

"Monstrosity."

You didn’t intend to play. That much you wanted to make perfectly clear.

After spending the morning occupied with other business, Theodore's father had invited you and your father for afternoon tea and a game of lawn polo with Theo and his friends - all carefully groomed hedges and intimidatingly pressed uniforms. You had been under the mistaken assumption that you'd be on the watching end of things. When Theo invited you to join the game, you offered a tight-lipped smile.

"I'm afraid I didn't pack any riding clothes," you said apologetically. It was true, you hadn't, but your worries had more to do with the fact that you hadn't ridden since you were 12.

Theo turned towards you, his hair sun-tousled with a sly slant to his eyes that promised nothing good for you.

“Whatever you’re wearing now is more than fine.”

You looked down at your blouse and loose linen trousers, uncertain.

"Unless, of course," he continued, dropping his voice, "you don't feel up for the game?"

You glanced up, reading the challenge in his words. He was goading you, and you knew better than to fall for it. But you just couldn't stand the idea of him holding this over your head, subtly or otherwise, for the rest of your visit. And so, as utterly infuriating as it was, you took the bait - hook, line, and sinker.

"Don't be ridiculous," you muttered through clenched teeth, taking the helmet he held out for you.

And so you awkwardly mounted a dapple-grey gelding under the watchful eye of yours and Theo's fathers, pretending you weren’t one misplaced pebble away from sliding off your horse, face-first. Theo carelessly introduced his friends from boarding school - Mattheo Riddle and Blaise Zabini. They waved at you good-naturedly, and you nervously smiled back. They seemed friendly enough, but then again, so had Theo.

The game started fast - faster than you were comfortable with, if you were being completely honest. Within minutes, you were hopelessly lost while Theo, unsurprisingly, was in his element. He rode like he’d been riding all his life, and he probably had - back straight, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with something more intense than friendly competition. Meanwhile, you struggled to keep up, your hands slick with sweat on the reins.

Theo whirled past you on his stallion, calling over his shoulder, “Next time, try aiming for the ball.”

The others laughed, well-mannered, while Theo smirked with a special kind of malice, as if he were all too aware of the heat crawling up your neck. You smiled through it, chin high, your thoughts drifting to violent fantasies of bashing his perfectly sculpted face in with your mallet.

He wasn’t just fast; he was precise. Every time you neared the ball, he was there, cutting you off with easy, practiced turns or thundering by close enough to rattle you. Not enough to technically break the rules, but enough to make you painfully aware of how out of your depth you were.

At some point, the teasing and missteps began to chip away at your carefully composed expression. Your lips thinned. Your jaw locked. The linen blouse that once felt effortlessly chic now clung to your back.

You glanced around the lawn irritably when one of his friends caught your eye from across the field. Blaise, if you remembered correctly. He gave the subtlest flick of his wrist, adjusting the way he held his mallet. You mirrored him instinctively, and almost immediately, your wrist felt less strained. Stunned, you shot him an appreciative look.

A few minutes later, Mattheo came riding up beside you at a slower pace, his horse snorting softly.

“Alright, New York?” he asked with a lazy grin.

That piqued your attention. Although you currently lived in LA, it wasn't exactly common knowledge that you were born and brought up in New York City. Still, you weren't sure how much you could trust either of them. They were Theo's friends, after all.

“Just peachy,” you replied coolly.

He leaned a little closer, and you felt mildly jealous and how effortless he made it seem.

“You know, Theo only acts like this when he really hates someone.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Or,” he added casually, as he gathered his reins in one hand, “when he really likes them.”

The implication hit only after he had steered his horse away. You blinked, before seizing your own reins with a newfound determination. Whatever game Theo thought he was playing, you weren’t about to let him win it.

With your grip improved and your instincts finally catching up, you started anticipating the ball's path. Your swings grew sharper, more confident. You manoeuvred around Theo once, twice, three times.

At the final play, it was all heat and desire for vengeance. You galloped forward, timing your swing just as the ball veered to the left. Your mallet connected with a satisfying crack, sending it cleanly rolling between the makeshift goal posts.

The applause was courteous but audible; your father's a little more effusive than was strictly polite.

You trotted past Theo, heart still pounding, your smile flushed and wicked.

His face remained as impassive as marble. “There are less showy ways to win, you know” he said, voice neutral.

You leaned in. “But hardly half as satisfying.”

You dismounted and handed off your reins to a stablehand, still floating on the high of your victory.

“A play like that deserves its own prize,” Nott Sr. said with faux formality. “Perhaps a small trophy. Or a drink named after you in the club lounge.”

You nodded graciously, murmuring something demure.

But your eyes flicked to Theo as he dismounted a few paces away. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. The bad-tempered flick of his brow as he handed off his helmet was the clearest reaction you’d seen all day.

And, if you were being completely honest, that little crack in his perfectly constructed exterior was the best trophy you could’ve asked for.

"Bored out of your skull, aren't you?"

You jumped, startled from where you had been resting your head for a brief shut-eye. This afternoon, the Notts were hosting you, your father, and some Ministry officials at an art gallery. With considerable effort, you lasted about half an hour before you excused yourself to the car outside Even now you had to contend with a humidity that made your hair stick to the back of your neck. It had been drizzling incessantly since morning, introducing a dampness to everything.

"Understandably so," Theo continued in a smug tone that made you kick yourself for letting him catch you unawares. "It's all a little dry for me, and I grew up with this stuff."

You straightened in the passenger seat, resisting the urge to nervously fix your hair, smoothing out whatever scrap of dignity you had left.

"I don't know what you're talking about. The tour was highly intriguing. I was just in here looking for my...my sunglasses." You peered into the glove compartment. What had left your lips as a fib was now becoming a rather real problem, actually - where were your sunglasses? You were too distracted to notice Theo climbing into the driver's seat beside you until the door shut. You closed the glove box, defeated, thinking hard about where you last saw them.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked. "Or - what would that be for you? Dollar for your thoughts?"

"Cent."

"Are you sure? With these exchange rates?"

For what felt like the hundredth time since the beginning of your trip, you shot Theo a dirty look. Not that it seemed to upset him.

"Nice weather we're having," he tried again.

You shrugged, glancing up at the clouded skies. "I guess. Does it never get fully dry here?"

You regretted opening your mouth as soon as you saw the ill-disguised amusement on his face. Clearly, you had just said something wilfully ignorant of the place. It wasn't your fault. Who had the time to vacation in dreary old England when the rest of Europe seemed so warm, colourful and dry?

"'Fraid so. You must understand, we're quite a bit of ways from Californ-yuh."

You grimaced.

"Was that your attempt at an American accent?"

Theo grinned. You had been around your fair share of good-looking people, but when Theo smiled - genuinely smiled, full of mirth or adolescent mischief - it almost hurt to look at his beautiful face.

If only didn't come attached with that insufferable personality.

"Come on. It wasn't that bad."

"It didn't even sound like English."

"It did - and what's more, that is exactly what you sound like."

You gasped, appalled. This miscreant was supposed to be the well-bred progeny of an English Ministry official? The mocking and teasing you could put up with, but outright insults were where you drew the line.

"Is not!"

"Is too."

"Is - " you stopped yourself, giving Theo a dirty look. He looked hardly apologetic; if anything, he seemed awfully pleased with himself for successfully having roped you in some inane, childish spat.

"You know what? You're right. The day's wasted just sitting around."

Theo didn’t wait for you to respond. He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.

You froze.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking you for a spin," he said casually, as if it were nothing. “You clearly need to get out more, get some fresh air in those lungs.”

"The hell I do - Theodore, no."

But he was already reversing, one hand on the wheel, the other behind the passenger seat headrest. The car jerked at a hard turn, gravel spitting beneath the tires. A moment later, he punched it forward, the sudden acceleration slamming you back against the seat.

“I am not dying in a British clown car,” you hissed with a white-knuckled grip on the door handle.

Theo didn’t even look at you. “It’s Italian,” he said smoothly, switching gears like it was muscle memory. “And she likes to be pushed.”

He turned towards you, peering over his sunglasses with his startlingly dull eyes.

"Though I have to warn you, if you insult my car again, I'm not above leaving you at the side of the road."

You could barely process the words before he was tearing down a narrow country road, weaving between bends. The hedges blurred into a smear of green. Your stomach lurched with every curve he barely braked for, the car swinging wide, tires shrieking with every corner he turned too fast.

“You're a lunatic!” you shouted, clutching your seatbelt, as the speedometer soared past any sane number.

“And you’re too uptight,” he said coolly, shifting gears with a little flourish. “But here we are.”

The tires skidded slightly as he made another turn. Raindrops streaked the windshield. Your fingers frantically fumbled along the seat. Seatbelt. Seatbelt.

“Jesus - Theo - SLOW DOWN.”

But he didn’t. If anything, the Ferrari sped up, surging forward like it had something to prove.

You felt it in your chest, in your teeth, adrenaline flooding your veins. Your heart was beating so fast it hurt.

“I swear to God, if you kill me—”

“Oh, I’d never. Imagine the paperwork.” His smile widened as the road narrowed. “Besides, this car is worth considerably more than your life.”

“You are such an asshole.”

Theo clicked his tongue, entirely unbothered. “Language,” he rebuked. “Bit unladylike, don’t you think?”

You'd have had your hands around his neck by now if he wasn't the one driving this death trap machine. Your stomach flipped as the car surged forward again. The car lifted slightly as it hit a bump, just enough for your breath to catch in your throat. When it slammed back down, you swore you felt your bones rattle.

“This isn’t fun,” you said, voice ragged.

“Not for you, maybe.” Theo downshifted just to hear the engine snarl. You were going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.

All of a sudden, you felt the car slowing down. You looked up, dizzy with relief, just as Theo slowed to a stop outside the gallery. He looked invigorated by the ride, and also as though he was trying not to laugh. Delicately, he pulled down the sunglasses that you had stuck in your hair earlier that morning.

"Found them," he said, far too cheerfully.

But you were at your limit. You finally snapped.

You stepped out of the car on wobbly legs, slamming it closed just as your father and a couple of Ministry officials were exiting the gallery.

"Which way to the estate?" You asked crossly, interrupting their conversation. Your father looked between yours and Theo's faces, alarmed.

"What h- "

"Which. Way. to the estate."

Your father hesitated in his reply, clearly appalled by your bright red face. Or perhaps the state your hair was in.

"That way. But Y/N, honey, if you take one of the cars - "

"I'm walking."

"All the way back, darling?" he asked fretfully. "At least let Theodore drive you."

This was clearly the wrong thing to have said, if your aggravated shriek was any indication. You gracelessly turned and started walking back to the manor, uncaring of the scene you were making. And as for Theo -

Well. You didn't care to even spare him a glance.

"It was awful, Vee. He's awful. He just does whatever he wants whenever he wants, consequences be damned." You were lying on your room's window seat, fresh out of a shower after the hike back, talking to a friend on the phone while staring hatefully out the window at the blissfully peaceful sprawling grounds. Stupid England and its stupid politicians and their stupid sons and its stupid mud.

Your gaze drifted sorrowfully towards your boots, which hadn't survived the walk home. "And Daddy calls me spoiled," you sniffled.

You heard a familiar crunch of gravel and looked out to see a disgustingly familiar car pulling in. You glared at it as Theo killed the engine and stepped out. You watched him scan the exterior, presumably counting windows until he met your gaze. He waved at you, motioning for you to come downstairs. For a moment, you indulged in the fantasy of flipping him off and drawing your curtains.

"What?" You started crossly as you walked out to the porch, still too peeved to even pretend at civility.

Theo just tilted his head, leaning against the car, eyes hidden behind his sleek, rectangular shades. "You know, I don't think I've seen you smile once your whole trip. Is everyone in America always this discontent?"

"I don't know. Is everyone in England always this unpleasant?"

Theo had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "Touché."

He cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter. Prick. He probably liked the idea of you having to tilt your head upwards just to look him in the eye.

"I really am sorry about this afternoon. It's just - sometimes there's no stopping me when I really get going. Especially if it has anything to do with my father."

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So that's it? I'm just a pawn for you to use to get back at your dad?"

"No, that's not - " Theo ran a hand through his rougishly dishevelled hair. He took a deep breath.

"Let me start over. My behaviour has been...rude, and disrespectful, and you didn't deserve any of it. So..."

Theo turned and picked something up from the passenger seat - a navy blue, velvet box. You eyed it skeptically.

"What's this?"

"Peace offering."

You stared at the box for a while before you caved in out of curiosity. You grudgingly accepted the box and opened it. You felt your mouth go dry. Nestled in the thick, rich fabric was the most delicate, exquisite set of diamond earrings you had ever seen. They glittered as if in slow motion in the late afternoon sun. This was no American brand - Cartier, perhaps?

"Truce?"

Your head snapped up, and you remembered why you were here, and who you were talking to. You traced part of the earrings' outline longingly. Damn. With diamonds like these, he could have a truce and then some.

"Yeah. I mean, fine. Truce, I guess," you stammered out disinterestedly, trying to hide how the gift had rendered you speechless.

You had specific tastes. You didn't shop excessively but precisely. It was why you could never take to a personal shopper - no one seemed to understand your tastes or preferences as well as you did yourself. Until today, that is.

With considerable difficulty, you shut the box. After all, it would be rude to reject such an expensive gift. You didn't even know if they did returns in this part of Europe. Why should you begrudge yourself such a fine piece of jewellery just because he decided to be an ass?

"Is that all?"

"Mostly. How did your boots hold up?"

You stayed resolutely silent, but something on your face must have given it away. Theo wrinkled his nose sympathetically. "Thought so. We have a cobbler a little way in the town. I can drop them off for you, if you'd like. They should be done by the time I get back."

"Back?"

It was only then that you noticed the trunk propped up in the backseat of the car.

"I'm visiting Normandy for a few days."

You raised your eyebrows, unimpressed but not surprised. "Didn't you just get back from Italy?"

"This one's more of a house call. Speaking of, I really should get a move on." "So, your boots?"

You hesitated. These were your Manolo Blahniks. Your babies. Could you really trust a man as vile as he was with them? Then again, it didn't look like they could get much worse.

While you deliberated, Theo rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. Keep your boots. Just wait for the mud to dry and then brush it off. That should get most of it."

With that, he stepped back into the car and fastened his seat belt. He looked up to where you were still staring at him mistrustfully.

"Well, I'm off. Feel free to direct some of that snark towards my father while I'm gone."

You numbly watched him reverse out the gate and turn into the main streets, the gift weighing heavily on your mind.

You hadn't anticipated how quiet the manor could be without Theo. Did he really occupy so much space that the manor felt incomprehensibly vast and cold without him? You whiled away your days at dinners and luncheons and how you usually occupied yourself on these kinds of alien social vists, but it just wasn't the same without anyone your age. You were starting to get so bored, it almost felt like you were beginning to miss him.

It was almost a week since you last saw Theo. You were in your room, making plans to go into town, when you glimpsed a figure near the perimeter of the estate's front lawn. You opened your window. There was something familiar about the carelessly sun-kissed crop of curls.

Looking closer, you realised you were right. You didn't know he was back, but it was most certainly Theodore Nott in the black suit - Merlin, that had to be uncomfortably warm - glinting cufflinks, purposeful stride. He looked stiffly formal in a way you’d never seen him. Polished and imposing with his usual languid gait replaced by something far more measured.

Theo's gaze drifted up the estate until his eyes met yours. You leaned against the windowsill and gave him a look, brow arched, lips parted, and he...nothing. Theo had absolutely no reaction to you. His eyes were on yours, but it was as though he was seeing straight through you. Just a tiny, barely there tick in his jaw before he looked away.

That was when you noticed the foreign dignitary following closely behind, dressed as sharply as Theo. You propped your chin up on your hand, watching with renewed interest. Ah. Hosting, are we?

Really, he only had himself to blame for you turning it into a little game. He should have known it would be dull as tomes without him. Every time his gaze wandered towards you, voluntarily or otherwise, you waved brightly, blew him a kiss or two, and the like, all while he did his best to keep a straight face and look away.

His posture changed. Stiffened. A flick of his shoulder. A twitch of the hand. A slight turn of his head as if fighting the urge to look again. You could see him biting the inside of his cheek. At one point, he even coughed. This all only further encouraged you.

Eventually, Theo turned away from you fully, his mouth moving as he muttered something to the dignitary. His face was mostly hidden now, but not before you caught the faintest curve of a smile biting into his cheek.

Victory.

You watched them retreat to the cool indoors. You stayed at the window watching the stray sprigs of dandelions toss their heads in the faint breeze until you ran out of patience. You hurried downstairs, determined to vex him for being away for so long. Theo apparently had a similar idea and you nearly ran smack into him as you turned the corner on the spiral stairs.

"How was Normandy?" you asked in a breathless rush, his hand warm at your elbow.

"Terribly pleasant without you constantly looking down on everything." Up close, he looked a little more bronze, a little more rosy than when you last saw him. Or maybe that had to do with him running up the stairs.

The hand Theo had stuck out to stop you from running into him had regrettably fallen. "Mother sends gifts." Then, as if his body couldn't physically handle being nice to you, he added, "Clearly, she's never met you."

Your lips twitched. "Clearly."

You let Theo lead you down to the living room, where there was no dignitary but only a fabulous spread of French cheeses, smiling at him prettily as he somewhat sarcastically offered you a seat. You took a sip of the wine he poured you, watching him pretend not to watch you back. The two of you spent the rest of the afternoon lazily picking at the variety of French cheeses Theo had brought home, talking about any and everything under the sun, from his trip to the summer camps you used to go to.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you were back," you said an hour later, when the two of you were beginning to run out of things to talk about.

Theo gave an exaggerated wince as he refilled your glass. "Please. I came here straight from the jet, I promise you."

You rolled your eyes.

"Well, next time, you can tell your mother that I loved the - er, hang on...fromage de bois?"

"What?"

Theo sat up, watching your mouth intently. Your face was starting to feel a little hot, probably from all the wine.

"Say that again?"

You cleared your throat. "Um, fromage de bois?"

Theo shook his head. "Again."

You repeated yourself a little haltingly. French had never been your strong suit. Theo stared at you, brow furrowed, mystified.

"You are doing strange and unusual things with that tongue of yours...and none of it is right." He looked enthralled. Fascinated. Tipsy. You rolled your eyes. "Your accent is...in a word, abysmal."

You nibbled at the cheese you apparently couldn't pronounce right. "Sorry, Mr. Intercontinentally Educated. Some of us have to contend with the Ivy League legacies we were born into."

Theo busied himself with another wheel of cheese. You thought back to the foreign dignitary from that afternoon.

"I thought you didn't do your father any favours," you asked. It was a risky topic to broach, but you could always blame it on the wine.

Theo chewed for a long while.

"Usually, I don't."

"But?"

"But my mother thinks I should be less hard on him."

"Oh."

"And I think she's starting to forget what he's like."

Theo dusted his hands with a wry smile before reaching over you towards the crackers, broad-shouldered, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. Too late, the thought to lean back crossed your mind, but by then Theo was already back in his seat, turning over the empty dish and eyeing you with mock disapproval.

"Someone's finished all the crackers."

You smiled innocently, crumbling the few crackers left in your hand as you watched him call for more.

It was your last night at the estate. There's no place like home, but it saddened you to leave this quaint slice of English countryside in the middle of nowhere. You were curled up on your window seat, trying to focus on a book you weren’t actually reading. You should have gone to bed hours ago, but something was keeping you up.

You were so sure he'd show up. One last time. Just for you.

You finally snapped your book shut, admitting defeat, and swung your legs into bed with a sigh. Then, you heard it - the low, unmistakable growl of a stupidly expensive sports car.

You hurried over to your window, shivering with anticipation. There Theo was, dressed down in a soft black sweater and slacks, leaning against that yellow Ferrari. You never doubted him for a second.

You padded downstairs with ill-disguised excitement.

"I'm here for your big send-off."

You raised your eyebrows. "Send-off?"

"Yeah. What kind of host would I be if I didn't give you the right send-off?"

Your eyebrows disappeared into your hair. The levels of hypocrisy of this man were astounding.

"You left the country for a week while we were here. Or have you forgotten?"

Theo was starting to look annoyed.

"Do you want a big send-off or not?"

"...okay."

You were in the passenger seat for barely ten minutes, cruising through narrow, moonlit country lanes, before Theo pulled into an empty side road.

You blinked at him. Maybe you trusted him too much, too quickly. Was this how you died?

“Why are we stopping?”

Theo walked over to your side of the car, opened the door and held out the keys. You eyed them distastefully.

"Please don't tell me you're giving me the car. Respect for other people's property is the only thing stopping me from driving this off a cliff."

"I'm not giving it to you," he said, as your fingers curled uncertainly around the metal. You relaxed.

"I'm teaching you how to drive it."

You laughed. Then stopped laughing.

“You’re serious?”

You were glad it was the middle of the night with nobody around, because you were gaping at him rather unbecomingly.

"Dr - drive this? Are you crazy?"

"I'm picking up a pattern here. I'm starting to think you have a very low bar for insanity."

"This cannot be legal. You guys don't even drive on the right side of the road here."

"Relax. I'll walk you through it."

And so, Theo eventually wheedled you into getting into the driver's seat, fastening your seatbelt and switching on the engine.

"Okay, so, foot goes on the brake, hands on the wheel - " For a moment, Theo's large warm hands enveloped yours, pulling them up to 10 and 2, and you felt your heart flutter. " - and, try not to kill us, yeah?"

You shot him a glare. "You're so funny," you deadpanned.

Theo grinned. You wiped the smile right off his face as the car lurched forward, nearly concussing him on the dashboard.

"Gentle, gentle," he wheezed.

The drive that followed was a mixture of cautious lurches and unexpected smooth patches. Theo’s instructions were teasing but not unkind. He guided you through each shift, each turn, with his voice low and amused. At one point, when you stalled the car trying to reverse out of a hedgerow, you noticed his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. You gave him the silent treatment for five blocks until he effusively and somewhat mockingly apologised.

When the two of you had had enough excitement for one night, Theo gave you directions back to the estate. Even in pitch dark, Theo knew the network of roads surrounding his family home like the back of his hand.

You pull into the driveway and kill the engine. A deafening silence settles over the two of you.

"So? How was I?"

Theo takes his time responding. "You did better than I expected."

You make a show of twirling your hair. "So you think I'm a natural."

Theo's oddly quiet. You can't make out his expression in the shadows.

"I think you're something," he says quietly. He leans forward enough for his expression to take shape in a sliver of moonlight. You feel your heart hammering in your chest.

All of a sudden, you don't want to go up to your room, knock out, and leave in the morning. You want to sit here in this god-awful Ferrari with Theo and his windswept hair and his bedroom eyes and the look on his face like he really wanted to kiss you.

"Theodore - "

"My friends call me Teddy," he murmurs, barely managing to force the words out before his mouth covers yours.

It’s not careful or practiced like most things Theo does. It’s a little desperate, a little clumsy - like he’s scared to hesitate. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he tilts his head slightly, deepening it enough to make you blush with the intimacy of it.

When he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours. You can feel how uneven his breathing is. How unsure.

You blink at him, stunned.

"Your friends don't call you Teddy."

Theo laughs shakily, and you realise that that isn't the most sensible reaction. For the first time in your trip, you laugh with him.

"What? You think I'm some idiot that doesn't notice what your friends call you?"

"You're right. They don't," Theo agrees with a breathless laugh. His breathing evens out. "But I was hoping you might."

You shake your head slightly, feeling a flush creeping up your neck.

"I can't believe I ever thought you were cool. You're so lame."

"And yet," he says softly, nudging his nose against yours, "you still haven't run for the hills."

You don’t answer. You don’t move. Not for a long, long while.

#illbegottenfaith #Theodore Nott recs

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riddlemelater-recs · 21 days ago

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oh i need dealer!mattheo biblically, I'm afraid. This is so hot omfg.

every single time i see this picture of him, i immediately feel like he fits what would be dealer!mattheo.

dealer!mattheo who won’t even let you near a cigarette because it’s “bad for you.” he doesn’t even like you coming with for deliveries but when you refuse and get in the passenger seat anyways, he drives with one hand on the steering wheel, the other hand gripping his glock.

he also forces you into the bedroom whenever he has customers coming over because it’s not safe for you. and if you sneak out of the room while he’s dealing, he’s fucking you into the mattress later that night, his hips slamming against your ass cheeks. “such a naughty fucking girl, aren’t you? you never learn...” he’d whisper in your ear, fistful of your hair, wondering why it was so hard for you to just listen.

and of course dealer!mattheo always makes sure his girl is taken care of well before his own needs are met. he lets you cum first, no exceptions. in fact, he makes you cum MULTIPLE times before he does. always giving you money to go treat yourself, taking you on vacations, anything you wanted. you had him wrapped around your little finger.

#nottscherry #mattheo riddle recs

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riddlemelater-recs · 22 days ago

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it warms my heart that you see the vision, I am nothing if not a sucker for angst and putting my characters through hell, (sorry). Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts lovely, I can’t wait to share part two with you!

Last Call - M.R.

masterlist | nav

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

warnings: alcohol use/dependency, mentions of war, death, depiction of injury/blood, dark themes, one brief mention of rumoured suicide, post-war vibes, implied trauma. please let me know if there's anything i missed!

I am not responsible for your media consumption, please read the warnings and if it's not for you then i'll see you next time <3

summary: Mattheo Riddle was sharp, charming, and haunted. Now he’s just a shadow at the bar—drunk, quiet, unraveling. You don’t know why you care. Maybe it’s who he used to be. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he doesn’t expect kindness anymore. But one things certain: you won't turn your back on him, not like the rest of the world already has.

w.c: 3.8k

a/n: consider this me dipping my toes into the au world because I've read so many recently that have got me thinking👀 ps: this is my new series riddlemelater is back with a bang ;)

All feedback, likes, reblogs + comments are greatly appreciated!

"Sweet Salazar, look what the cat dragged in." Your boss murmured with a heavy sigh, nodding towards the door which had just pushed open to reveal the dishevelled appearance of Mattheo Riddle.

The local drunk, as most knew him, was a shadow of the boy from Hogwarts. Back then he'd been a heart breaker. A playboy. Sharp witted, short tempered, and irresistibly charming.

You'd never really spoken to him in school. Everyone knew Draco Malfoy, naturally, and Blaise Zabini too was a household name—thanks to his illustrious mother. You'd spoken to Theodore Nott once or twice, vaguely and in passing. Even shared a potions station with Lorenzo Berkshire for half a year, but Mattheo Riddle had never directly come into your orbit.

Not until very recently.

He was your typical bad boy— the tragic backstory, the scars, the knack for trouble — he fit the part too perfectly. Gorgeous, yes, in that careless way. Curls falling over stormy eyes, a scowl that made people lean in instead of run. And tinged in just enough mystery that it was impossible to tell if he was an asset or a threat.

That had all come to an end now, his whole world crashing down around him the moment Harry Potter defeated Lord Voldemort, his father. He was shunned from that day forth— there had been rumours they'd snapped his wand, others that he was sleeping rough somewhere in the forbidden forest, biding his time before resurrecting his father, or becoming the next threat to the Wizarding World himself.

None of the rumours were true, though. You'd learned that pretty quickly.

Mattheo Riddle lived in a flat just off Charing Cross—though by the looks of him, you’d think he was squatting in Knockturn Alley. He certainly didn't look like someone who owned property, never mind one in Central London amongst Muggle bankers and finance experts.

But alas, having Lord Voldemort as a father must've done wonders for the young heirs Gringotts vault— even if not for his mental wellbeing.

"Listen, love. Do you want me to serve him?" Your boss offered quietly, leaning towards you to whisper under his breath, eyes not leaving the scruffy figure who'd sauntered in, drunk and dead behind the eyes.

Your head shook slightly, "S'alright I've got it, Albion. He's harmless."

A few heads had turned, mostly regulars who were well aware of who lurked underneath the dirt and the grime. His hair was more unruly than ever, his chin littered with stubble and the occasional, bloody cut from his shaving razor. But it was obvious who the man behind the mask was.

He looked like he needed a shower, skin sweaty and stray hairs sticking to his forehead. Clothes dirty and stained like they hadn't been washed in weeks, and he wore a leather jacket. One you recognised from a few years ago, almost able to picture his younger, teenage self leaning up against an alley wall in Hogsmeade, smoking with his friends.

You grabbed at a clean glass from under the bar and turned just as he slid into the stool opposite you— his movements slow, slightly off-balance, like gravity pulled at him harder than it did anyone else. His gaze was vacant at first, cast somewhere over your shoulder, brow furrowed like he was lost in a memory he hadn’t asked to remember.

“Same as usual?” you asked smoothly, reaching for the bottle he always gravitated towards — something cheap, burning, no-nonsense.

That’s when his eyes finally lifted to yours.

And for a moment — just a moment — something clicked behind them. Recognition, sharp and fleeting, like the glint of a knife beneath a coat. His lips parted slightly, not in greeting, not in surprise exactly, but something close. Like maybe he knew your name once. Like maybe he remembered the way you used to pass him in the corridors at Hogwarts, eyes down, heart thudding, pretending not to notice the way he laughed too loud and lived too fast.

He didn’t say anything. Just blinked slowly, then dragged a hand through his hair like it physically hurt him to focus.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he muttered, voice low and rough, words carelessly slurred — like they weren’t meant for you at all.

Your hand paused over the bottle. “Still where?”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned forward, elbows on the bar, and looked away — eyes fixed now on some distant point across the room, jaw clenched in thought.

Maybe he didn’t mean you, exactly. Maybe it was this place. This pocket of stillness in a city that never looked twice at him. Maybe it was the only place left that didn’t flinch when he walked in, or the only place that would let him in nowadays.

The pub sat quietly between the Muggle and Magical worlds — close enough to Diagon Alley to draw a few wizards, but far enough into Charing Cross to be forgotten by most. The regulars were either too old to care, too drunk to notice, or too lonely to ask questions.

Seemed fitting for the likes of Mattheo Riddle.

You poured the drink wordlessly.

"I'll add it to your tab, then?" You asked, sliding the glass across the bar, unable to take your eyes off him as he took a sip. Then, as if considering something, swallowed the rest in one large gulp.

He didn't respond, just pushed the glass back towards you, indicating for a refill.

"Long day, was it?" You asked, breezy and light, as if he was just another customer. You began to pour another but stopped when you noticed his eyes narrow, like he was trying to figure you out.

"There's no trick, you know." You met his gaze, "I'm just being nice."

Mattheo let out a low huff of air—maybe a laugh, or maybe just exhaustion. Hard to tell. His eyes dropped to the bar between you, fingers drumming a restless rhythm against the scarred wood.

"You know who I am," he said, voice rough, like it hadn’t been used much lately. "Don’t pretend you don’t."

You shrugged, nonchalant. "Everyone knows who you are."

He looked up again. This time, his stare landed like a weight. "No," he said. "People who know who I am don't waste their time being nice."

You refilled the glass without a word. Let him drink. Let him watch you like that, like another person who couldn't be trusted. He was cynical enough, why bother convincing him of anything else.

"Hogwarts..." he said abruptly, then trailed off like the words tasted strange. Like he'd caught himself at the last second. "Never mind."

His eyes darted back down to his drink and he didn't look back up at you for a long while, a quiet confirmation that the conversation was over. You left him to it, and he was gone before you could even notice he'd stood up, a mouthful of whiskey still sat at the bottom of his glass.

The next time he showed up, he looked worse.

"There's something not right about that boy," Your boss muttered breathlessly, watching you pull the first aid kit down from the stockroom shelf.

"And don't you go getting mixed up in his troubles. A boy like that can only bring bad news, I'll tell you that for free." he warned as you turned to head back out, the place deserted asides from a few older wizards huddled in the corner.

You hesitated with your hand on the door. Maybe Albion was right. Maybe you should’ve just left it alone.

But something about him — the way he looked like he’d stopped expecting kindness, the way his silence felt heavier than most people’s words. That made it hard to walk away.

You didn’t know why you cared. Not really. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was the version of him you remembered in passing, the boy who once seemed untouchable. Or maybe it was just the simplest truth of all: he looked like someone who didn’t have anyone. And you couldn’t stomach the thought of being another person who turned their back.

"Ruddy Gryffindors." Albion muttered to himself as you rounded the bar, disregarding his warning.

Mattheo was sitting in his usual seat, knuckles bloody and a dark purple bruise decorating his left temple. You didn't ask what happened. Part of you already knew, he wasn't that unrecognisable if you looked hard enough.

"Let's see, then." You said, pausing in front of him and nodding towards his injured hands. Mattheo looked stunned, pulling his hands back from where they rested either side of his drink.

You weren’t foolish enough to think you could fix him. But maybe — selfishly — it felt worse to do nothing at all.

"It's nothin', just leave it." he protested tiredly.

You shot him a look, one of those disapproving 'don't be ridiculous' looks you'd learned from working with the drunk and disorderly over the past year, and offered your hand to him. Expectant. Waiting.

It was his choice whether he took it.

Hesitating, he thought for a moment. Looked like he was weighing up the odds of getting up and walking out. Then slowly, sheepishly, he extended his hand and let you examine his knuckles.

Sucking a breath in through your teeth you examined the wounds, the way the skin parted at the high points of his joints, the steady trickle of blood that dripped down his tan skin. It wasn't the worst you'd seen, but it needed cleaned and you didn't trust him to in the state he was in.

"Hold still a second," You instructed, pouring disinfectant onto a cotton-pad, daring a glance up at his furrowed brows as you dabbed it across the cuts. He flinched subtly, restrained but not as much as he would've liked, fingers flexing as you worked.

"Sorry." you winced.

He grunted a sort of acknowledgement and stared at you through his lashes. You wondered what he was thinking, if he too was as confused as you were about why you insisted on helping. On caring. He stared, gaze steady, even as you reached for the antiseptic and applied it carefully to the broken skin.

"We had Charms together, didn't we?" He asked quietly, "You were always late."

You stilled, glancing up at him, face warming. You hadn't expected him to remember you, he had no reason to, not really. Yet he did, somehow.

"We did, yeah. In fourth year." You nodded slowly. "And I was only late because—"

"—because you had potions right before." He finished, then as if embarrassed, he looked down. “Only reason I remember’s ‘cause they were on opposite sides of the castle.” His voice was low, a little too casual. Defensive, even.

But for a moment you could almost see a younger, less closed off version of him.

You smirked and canted your head, watching him curiously. "Bloody nightmare. Those stairs, I mean." You remarked, sensing he wasn't quite up for a trip down memory lane.

"Yeah..." He exhaled, nodding. "A real nuisance."

You were still cradling his injured hand, even though you'd long finished tending to the wound. He seemed to notice at the same time you did. You pulled away first, patting the bar beside him and pulling away.

"That's you, then. Bandaged up, I mean." You coughed, clearing your throat. Busying yourself with packing up the first aid box.

He grunted again, swallowed his drink and pushed the empty glass towards you.

"Thanks," he murmured, so quiet you thought you'd imagined it. "You didn't have to— yeah. Thanks."

You'd nodded, topped up his glass, then another customer stole your attention. And he sat quiet, like he was locked in another memory.

✯ ✯ ✯

Mattheo hadn’t been in to the pub in over a week. Though, given the time of year, it being the 5 year anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts and all, you could hazard a guess or two as to why.

It had been busier the last few nights, more traffic to Central London, Diagon Alley, and the Ministry meant business was booming. Record highs for the usually quiet pub, and a weary few days for you and Albion.

Yesterday, the Patil twins had stopped you in the street outside keen to catch up for old times sake. You'd chatted away cheerfully, plastering on a smile as they discussed the Ministry's Annual Charity Gala in memory of all those who fought and died in the battle.

You'd only gone the once and sworn never to attend again, it was far too bleak to stare at photo's of deceased friends and mentors whilst dressed to the nines and sipping on champagne.

And this afternoon, Neville Longbottom and his wife Hannah—formerly Abbot— had come strolling in for a spot of lunch before meeting up with some of your former classmates. They'd been ecstatic to tell you, and anyone else who'd listen, that they were expecting their first child in the winter. You'd only smiled and shook your head when they enquired if you were settling down anytime soon.

With so much fanfare around the Gala, you'd no time to breathe at all this week—helping Albion with the orders, chatting with old friends and former allies, even posing for the odd photo as the Prophet were reporting on the events once more. It was hectic. So much so that you hadn’t really had time to notice his absence, or the empty bar stool that sat in his place.

Not at first, at least.

You’d been too swept up in the heaviness May always brought—the memories, the grief, the stories you no longer wanted to hear aloud. The same things that you suspected kept him away.

By early evening on the anniversary, the pub was packed, and you and Albion were rushed off your feet. A group of wizards from somewhere in Southern Europe had wandered in early and were still crowded around a table, laughing loudly and talking in a language you didn’t recognise.

The rest of the crowd was a mix—some familiar, some not—but you rarely had time to think, let alone pause. You’d just come up from the cellar after replacing one of the barrels when a cluster of voices caught your attention.

Familiar. Posh. Too familiar to ignore.

You turned toward the sound, already tense before you could place the voices. Aristocratic voices— polished by wealth and dulled by just enough alcohol to make them louder than they should be.

Draco Malfoy stepped through the open doorway first, shrugging off the cold like it offended him. Still as pale and as pointy, though notably wearing far less hair product than you remembered. Blaise Zabini followed, hands tucked into the pockets of his long coat, eyes already scanning the room meticulously— You wondered if he'd always done that with such hyper-vigilance, or if it was a trait learned through the war.

Behind them came the lean figures of Lorenzo Berkshire and Theodore Nott, both laughing low and conspiratorial as they shook off rain from their shoulders. They'd always been the more lax of the group, them and Mattheo, that is.

You pushed that thought away, not wanting to acknowledge his obvious absence from the scene.

It felt like twisting a time-turner—old Hogwarts ghosts pressing into your present like they belonged there.

Blaise caught your eye first, expectedly. He blinked, registering you behind the bar with a flicker of surprise, then gave you a subtle nod. Not friendly nor unfriendly, just acknowledgement.

Lorenzo let out a soft whistle as he took in the place.

“Well, this is... atmospheric,” he muttered.

Albion gave them a hard look from the other end of the bar, clearly having overheard their assessment. You were already reaching for glasses before they could ask. Or before Albion demanded to know what they were doing in his pub.

Draco made a beeline for the bar, businesslike. Detached. You'd read enough of the Prophet to know that the Malfoy's had fallen out of high societies graces, though clearly this was news to Draco. Cool and unfazed as ever.

“Four firewhiskys.” he said, not quite meeting your gaze, already pulling out a handful of Galleons and slapping them down on the counter.

You poured without comment. Years ago, they wouldn’t have spared you a glance in the corridors, it seemed that Blaise was the only one who'd grown out of that behaviour.

Blaise leaned against the bar, sharp gaze moving from your face to the rest of the pub. “Didn’t expect to see anyone we knew here,” he murmured.

You raised a brow. “You don’t know me, Zabini.”

Theo let out a soft, huff of a laugh. “Merlin. Did anyone, back then?"

You glanced away, silent.

There was a quiet moment as they all took their glasses, the pub buzz muffled under the weight of something unsaid. Like they were communicating in some secret, silent language only they understood.

Draco was the one who broke it. “Well." he cleared his throat, "Is— Is he around?”

You didn’t move, just quirked your brow like you didn't know quite what he meant. “Who?”

“Mattheo,” he said blankly. “Supposed to meet us hours ago. Heard he comes here, thought we'd try catch him. We've— erm— been looking for him, you see.”

Your stomach curled, but you kept your expression neutral. “Haven’t seen him, sorry.”

Theodore exhaled, long and low. “Right,” he said into his glass, mostly to himself. “He was doing alright for a while. Still... better off not here, I suppose."

He sounded bitter, and thankful. You focused on polishing the counter, not wanting to speak out of turn.

The four of them lingered a minute longer, quiet in a way that made the room feel colder. Like they were united in their disappointment. Draco drained his drink, the others copying him silently.

Eventually, they peeled away—Draco leading, Lorenzo and Blaise in tow. Theodore was the last to step back from the bar, slower than the others. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, voice low and meant for them.

“Probably just got held up. He'll show. He has too.”

No one answered. They just kept walking.

You didn't say another word to them and they left shortly after. You just kept pouring drinks when required and occasionally glanced over at the empty stool— the one he always preferred. No one touched it that night.

Anniversary week came and went. The crowds died down and things fell back into the slow, quiet rhythm they'd always followed. The same old regular witches and wizards, the same orders that hadn't changed in years. Simplicity.

But still no sign of Mattheo Riddle.

You shrugged off the bad feeling, reminding yourself that he was an adult, not your responsibility. You barely knew him after all.

That didn't make you feel any better.

You were wiping down empty tables, the scratch of cloth against wood loud in the near silence, when a grizzled man from the corner caught your attention. He was a regular—weathered, with eyes sharp beneath heavy brows—and tonight, he seemed to be nursing more than just a drink.

“Heard about that young Riddle lad?” he asked, eyes darting around like he expected the walls to have ears. A few of the wizards at his table shared a glance, then shook their heads leaning in.

You stiffened, slowing down to listen in. Sucking in a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"He cracked, didn’t he?" he bellowed, chuckling. "Couldn’t outrun what was coming for him I reckon. Offed himself, poor bastard. That’s what Mick Tolliver said, anyway. Down Knockturn, the other week."

You froze, an empty glass in hand, heart skipping a beat.

The man shrugged, a grim smile tugging at his lips. "World’s cleaner for it, if you ask some folks. Shame though— think of the things he must've known about You-Know-Who."

You forced a breath out, steadying yourself. Ignoring the uncaring shrugs, the mutters of good riddance. As if the end of the Riddle bloodline was something to be celebrated.

You didn't even notice you'd slipped outside until the cold air hit you, despite summer being just around the corner it was still wet and cold in London. That smell of rain lingered across the concrete back alley, you used to love the smell at Hogwarts, though now it made you want to be sick.

Instinctively your fingers fumbled in the pocket of your apron, brushing against the half smoked pack of cigarettes you picked up months ago— something to lean on when memories of the war dragged your nerves and the silence at night felt too loud.

Your hands were steady as you lit it with the tip of your wand, but your mind was a storm, watching the embers light up against the dark. The smoke filled your lungs as you took in a long, bitter drag, those words swirling in your mind.

He offed himself.

Had it really come to that? Was he really that broken? Or had you just been too blind to see it?

The memory of his friends from just a week ago flashed through your mind—the way Theo had seemed quite certain he'd come, the way the others didn't seem too convinced. Like they all knew something you didn’t.

The cigarette burned low between your fingers, the smoke curling up like unanswered questions. You exhaled slowly, but the ache settled deeper. You didn’t know if it was grief, guilt, or something heavier—something that tasted like the war still lingering in your veins.

If he really had done it you'd have known, you reasoned. It would've made the front page of every wizarding tabloid out there. Swarms of magical folk would've been poking around the pub, all desperate to get a glimpse of his favoured haunt. Rita Skeeter at the very least would have made an appearance, surely.

But there’d been nothing. No headlines, no Ministry owls, no whispers beyond the drunken mutterings of half-sure old men.

Just silence. And absence.

You took one last drag and let the smoke slip from your lips, watching it vanish into the damp air like it might carry the thought away with it.

He was probably fine. Probably. Maybe he'd got clean, sorted himself out and left London. You hoped that was it.

You crushed the cigarette beneath your heel, the hiss of ember against pavement far too quiet for the weight in your chest. Then you went back inside—because what else was there to do?

You closed up in silence that night, wand abandoned behind the bar, opting to tidy up without magic. It'd take longer but you didn't mind, if anything you quite liked the distraction, and part of you still hoped he might turn up.

Bloody, slurring, drunk— you didn't care what state he was in, you just hoped he'd show. Prayed that it was another rumour, that he wouldn't be another person who lost their life to a war you shouldn't have had to fight.

You stacked the chairs, wiped the bar down one last time. It was the kind of night that left everything feeling a little heavier. You didn’t check the door.

But you thought about it.

And when you turned off the lights, you paused—just for a second— long enough to hope. But lately, hope didn't hold the weight it used to.

©️riddlemelater. 2025.

#feedback #kisses to babyycapri

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riddlemelater-recs · 22 days ago

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I’m all for everyone writing their own spin on characters, but if there was ever a writer to capture the very essence of Mattheo Riddle in their works, then you can find it right here. no notes except, I’ll take that shot of vodka, please 🥵

🖤 alive. mattheo riddle. 🖤 drabble. sex. unnamed reader. blood. rough. shot of vodka recommended.

the bed groans beneath you, mattheo's eyes glinting like blades in darkness. no soft bullshit - neither of you have time for that; just his hands - rough - jerking your thighs over his shoulders without a care as he thrusts, unyielding. the headboard cracks against the dorm wall like a fucking war drum. his hand wrapping around your throat, holding you down. sweat, tears and hair stuck to your cheeks. 'bite your lip'. the request comes with a snarl and you do - hard enough that blood seeps. sharp. metallic. his lips claim the taste; teeth crazing the plump flesh which eventually swallow your ruin. smack. once. twice. your ass stings; skin screaming. you claw at his back, nails carving red rivers into the muscle. he has no tenderness. fine by you, you weren't expecting any. nor mercy. just raw, jagged want - two enemies forced to work on a project together you've both abandoned to find out what it feels like to burn alive.

#mattheo riddle recs #moscatosin

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riddlemelater-recs · 28 days ago

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ok i'm OBSESSED. pressing so many kisses to the folds of your brain cause this is amazing!!!! love their dynamic, the push and pull was so realistic. literally kicking my feet and giggling at protective mattheo too

bloodlines (m.r.)

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word Count: 13.2k (wow)

Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.

A/N: I actually hate this😭

Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs

@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3

The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.

"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."

His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.

"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."

Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."

"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."

Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.

"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."

***

Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.

You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.

The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.

“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”

Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.

“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.

Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”

But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.

Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.

You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.

And then — everything went wrong.

The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.

Every cauldron detonated at once.

Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.

You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.

Everyone in the classroom froze.

Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.

“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.

“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”

“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.

But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.

“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”

Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.

Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.

You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.

You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.

***

The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.

Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.

But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.

"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."

You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:

“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”

You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.

You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.

“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”

“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.

“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.

“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”

Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”

“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”

Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”

Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”

“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”

McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”

The word hit the room like a curse.

“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”

You stared at him.

“No. That’s — that’s insane.”

“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.

Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”

“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.

“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”

Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”

You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.

Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”

He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”

Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”

You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”

Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.

“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”

Your breath caught.

No. No, no, no—

Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.

Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”

And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.

You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.

“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”

McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.

Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.

***

The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.

“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”

Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”

Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”

A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.

“I bumped into her. That’s all.”

Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”

Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”

But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.

He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.

“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.

A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.

Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”

Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”

He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.

“Accio.”

A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.

Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.

He was staring at his hand.

It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.

“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”

Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.

Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.

He stood abruptly.

“I’m going to bed.”

And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.

***

The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.

“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”

But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.

You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.

Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.

***

The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”

There was no response.

He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”

Still nothing.

Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”

Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.

They both froze.

Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.

But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.

Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”

They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.

“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.

Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.

***

You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.

The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.

Your pace slowed as you spotted them.

McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.

All gathered around a single hospital bed.

The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.

It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.

Mattheo.

Your breath caught.

He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.

You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.

“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”

No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.

You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”

McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.

Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.

You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”

Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”

“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”

No one spoke at first.

Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”

You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.

But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.

Your hands curled into fists.

“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”

Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.

“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”

No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.

But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.

“…his breath is getting fainter.”

“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”

Your steps faltered.

And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.

Like guilt.

Like dread.

But you walked away anyway.

***

The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.

You couldn’t sleep.

Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.

You told yourself he deserved it.

You told yourself you were right.

But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.

And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.

It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.

You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.

You just… had to see him.

The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.

Mattheo.

“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.

He hadn’t moved.

His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.

You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.

“I’ll do it.”

The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.

Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”

You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.

“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”

Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”

You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.

“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”

“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.

You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.

You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.

It was cold.

But you held it anyway.

The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.

Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.

You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.

But now…

You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.

“What do I say?” You whispered.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”

You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.

Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”

“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”

“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”

Your wand pulsed with heat.

The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.

You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

You froze.

Mattheo’s hand twitched.

Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.

“…You?”

His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.

It was done.

The pact was sealed.

You were married.

You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”

McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.

“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”

You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.

You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.

Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.

And then a voice — hoarse, furious:

“What the fuck did you do?”

You froze.

Mattheo.

You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.

He was staring straight at you.

“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.

“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.

He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.

“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”

“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”

Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.

“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.

And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.

“You’re right.”

Mattheo blinked.

Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.

“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”

McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.

“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”

Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.

But you weren’t finished.

“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”

You paused — your voice cold as ice.

“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”

The room went deathly still.

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.

And behind you, no one said a word.

***

The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.

Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:

The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.

But silence didn’t mean peace.

In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.

You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.

Your professors were at their absolute limit.

McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.

The problem was: detention didn’t help.

You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?

Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.

Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.

And the next explosion was only a matter of time.

It was supposed to be a simple lesson.

“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”

You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.

A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.

Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.

And Mattheo’s?

Two rows behind and off to the right.

Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.

You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.

The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.

Right off your desk.

The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—

It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.

His reaction was instant.

Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”

You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”

“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”

The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.

Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.

Your throat tightened like a vice.

“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”

“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”

“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”

His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”

“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”

Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.

“I swear to Merlin—”

Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”

“ENOUGH!”

McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.

With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.

She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.

Neither of you said a word.

“Outside. Now.”

You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.

And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.

But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.

Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.

And it wouldn’t be the bond.

It would be you.

***

Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.

Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.

“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.

The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.

For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?

Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.

Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.

You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”

You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.

Mattheo’s confusion deepened.

He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.

The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?

A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”

***

The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.

It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.

Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.

You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.

But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.

Your husband.

Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?

Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?

Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.

Not really.

Not freely.

You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.

You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.

***

Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."

He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.

No.

He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.

It wasn’t fair.

You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.

He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.

And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.

Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

This was just magic.

He didn’t believe in fate.

***

The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.

It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.

Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”

You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.

And it was driving you insane.

Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—

“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.

The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.

You flinched back—

But not fast enough.

A hand caught your wrist and yanked.

Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.

The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.

You froze.

Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.

“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”

Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”

But your voice faltered.

Because your skin was touching.

And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.

Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.

Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”

Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.

“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.

The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.

And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.

He didn’t let go.

He pulled you closer.

One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.

You couldn’t breathe.

For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.

But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.

Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.

You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.

The distance snapped back into place.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.

But something had.

You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.

Then you looked away.

Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:

Husband. Wife.

And the magic remembered.

***

The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.

“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”

Mattheo barely heard him.

They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.

“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.

Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.

A voice floated down the stairs.

Yours.

The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.

You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He spat the offending thing over the ledge.

“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”

“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”

You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.

He shouldn’t care.

Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”

You tilted your head.

He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”

You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”

He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”

“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”

You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”

He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”

Mattheo’s lungs went tight.

“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”

“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”

Harry didn’t argue.

“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”

Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?

But his heart was pounding.

Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”

“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”

“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”

You laughed softly.

“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”

Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.

“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”

From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.

“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.

Mattheo didn’t respond.

He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”

***

The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.

“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”

Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”

“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”

Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.

“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”

Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”

“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”

They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.

Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”

Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”

“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”

“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.

“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.

Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.

“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.

“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.

“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.

Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”

“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.

“You’re deflecting.”

“I’m leaving.”

Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.

***

Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.

The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.

'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.

It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.

The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.

Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.

As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.

Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.

He was alone. Relaxed.

This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?

Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.

So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.

He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.

Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.

Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?

That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.

You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.

A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.

His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.

He didn’t move at first, just stared.

You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.

Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.

It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.

You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.

Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.

“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”

His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”

You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.

***

The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.

Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.

Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.

“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”

“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.

You rounded a corner—and froze.

Footsteps.

You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.

You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—

You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”

His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”

“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”

His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.

“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.

You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.

When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.

As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.

You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Goodnight, Mattheo.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“Get back safe, yeah?”

He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.

The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”

He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”

“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”

It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.

Fuck.

***

The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.

You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.

“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”

You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.

“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.

“I asked first.”

“And I’m ignoring you first.”

He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”

You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”

You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.

He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”

He blinked, “What? Why?”

You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”

You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.

He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”

You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”

He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”

Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”

He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”

“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”

“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”

You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”

Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”

You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”

You turned to look at him.

The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.

"Maybe I will."

***

The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.

You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.

Until you saw him.

Mattheo.

He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.

You were looking in his direction.

At least that's what you told yourself.

You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.

And that was when Mattheo noticed you.

It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.

Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.

Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.

And you?

You didn’t look at him once.

At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.

Mattheo was gone.

Underwater.

Fully disappeared.

He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.

You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.

He watched the whole time.

You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”

Your eyes widened, “Wait—”

And then you were airborne.

You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.

Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.

And then—

Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.

Mattheo.

You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.

You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.

Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.

But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.

Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.

Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.

Mattheo saw red.

He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”

The guy froze mid-step.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.

“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”

“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”

Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.

Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.

You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.

“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”

His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.

He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”

He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

And that’s when it hit you.

There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.

Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.

Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.

Now?

You already knew.

You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.

Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”

***

You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”

You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”

“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.

Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”

You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”

“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”

Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”

You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”

Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”

You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”

“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”

“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.

***

Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.

“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”

Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”

“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”

Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”

Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”

“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”

“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.

“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”

“I don’t.”

All four blinked at him.

Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”

Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”

Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”

Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”

“I wasn’t in the mood.”

Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”

But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.

He stared at his hand.

No magic.

But definitely a spark.

***

Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.

A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.

“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”

You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”

That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.

Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?” You pressed.

He hesitated. A beat passed.

Then another.

“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”

His throat bobbed, “Does it?”

Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.

“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”

Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.

“Forget it.”

Your chest sank.

“Right.”

You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”

Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.

***

You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.

“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.

You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.

“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”

McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”

You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”

I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.

Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.

“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”

McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”

Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”

McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”

You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.

Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”

Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.

He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.

Other partners?

When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.

But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.

Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.

No. You didn’t want that.

Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”

You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.

Even if you were never truly his.

***

You left the office in silence.

Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.

Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.

Other partners.

The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.

Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.

“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”

You blinked, “Think about what?”

He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”

Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”

He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.

You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”

A pause. Longer than it needed to be.

His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”

You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”

“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”

You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.

Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.

You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?

“But,” You said loudly.

He stopped. Turned.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”

Silence.

It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.

Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.

He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

You shook your head, “I mean it.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”

A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.

“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”

Your heart stuttered.

He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”

The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”

He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.

“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”

Neither of you moved.

And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.

You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.

When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.

He didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.

Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.

You were choosing it. You were choosing him.

***

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@haniscrying

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

@paankhaleyaaar

Mattheo Riddle Taglist:

@redeemingvillains

#cipheress-to-k-pop #mattheo riddle recs

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riddlemelater-recs · 2 months ago

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this makes me so giddy🤭 the concept is immaculate, their effortless chemistry to die for & god the dialogue 🫠 street racer! Mattheo makes me drool run me over pls

speed dating

mattheo riddle x fem! reader. week 1 of @acourtofchaos festivalofau event!!

street racer!mattheo can't take his eyes off you even when he's driving, especially when you bring his heart to life by impressing him with your own skills.

an: big thanks to my love leigh for proofreading <3 I don't know anything about cars - this is very much inspired/uses fast and furious scenes, and I look forward to eventually writing a full fic for this au. ty for your patience as always <3 wc: 1.9k

"Okay, so next time, we're definitely dancing," you say with excited exasperation, the two of you exiting the rowdy Cuban restaurant and into the heart of street life. It's nearing 11pm on Friday, the beat of the night is picking up pace, like the rhythm of a song, the lively chatter blending into the roars of cars flashing by you.

He laughs, shaking his head, "oh sweet cheeks, you won't catch me dancing," sliding his hands from his pockets, he places one on your lower back, gently guiding you respectfully. "Or at least not till the fourth shot of tequila."

The sound is so deep and rich; a low hum like a car's engine that makes your insides squirm with delight, and then he smiles like he's been doing all night. His lips curling up on the edges in a way that if his eyes weren't matching its sincerity, he'd have you queasy in an entirely different way.

The way he looks at you, brown eyes that glimmer with warmth under the glow of the amber streetlights, as if light is blooming out from inside him. It's hard not to get attached, and that's the last thing you need right now. You've only known him a week. But there's something enticing, though dangerous about him, like a shot of whiskey knowing it's going to burn on the way down but overall spreading a fire of heat in the pit of your stomach.

Offering him an infectious smile of your own playing on the challenge presenting itself. "Sounds as if you're encouraging me to get you intoxicated." Ardently, you raise a brow at his inquiry. "Is that something that interests you?"

"There are a lot of things about you that interest me." His eyes sparkle with mystery, as he grins boyishly like he knew the affect those words would have on you.

You play it cool and collected, smiling back at him, the two of you strolling side by side, the silence isn't uncomfortable, and it hardly seems quiet with your heart becoming erratic, thumping around inside your ribcage like a hummingbird's wings.

You pass by distinct smells of nicotine, a cigarette shared by couples couped in the alcoves of their doorways. Clangs and rackets of neighbourhood cats, balancing along fences, chasing one another. There are bopping beats of music heard from the thriving clubs and bars further down, invitingly attracting groups of young people from all over town.

"So, this is me, my ride." Mattheo comments, as he stops you outside a parked bright orange car. He's offered to take you home, for a multiple of reasons. Some are selfish, wanting to show off his baby, not that he thinks you'll be highly interested, but it's his ego and pride, and it's worn just like the paint and wax shining proudly on the exterior.

Other reasons, safety and protectiveness. He's always cared about women, and while he's only known you a week, he's grown extremely fond of you. He doesn't want you catching the bus like how you got here. And well, third, he just can't take his eyes off of you. He's never smiled so damn much on a date, the unfamiliar feeling of it beginning to make him nauseous. But it will be worth it, if it means he gets to see more of you.

"Woah, no way! You drive a supra turbo MKIV? That's so sick." The sudden and surprising exclamation from you makes his heart pound faster. Your jaw is practically touching the concrete, unable to pull your eyes away from the beast before you, a glimmer of awe in your eyes. That is before you remember you're actually trying to impress Mattheo and not come across like a psychotic car fanatic, clearing your throat and tucking your hair back timidly. "I mean it's, um, a pretty colour."

He laughs heartily, amused by your quick and terribly obvious action to hide your knowledge of cars. He flashes you a charming smile, feeling in wonder at the woman beginning to unravel, fishing his keys out. "You know cars?”

Pulling your eyes off of his car, you nod, admitting your fascination with them with a wide grin, "Yeah, a thing or two."

“You wanna take a spin?"

Flabbergasted, you speak, "What, seriously?" When you realize stupidly, this is your only way home you're clambering into the vehicle with buzzing excitement. It's so beautiful, the interior's sleek black seats lined with soft leather that have you sinking right into them.

The dashboard illuminates, lighting up a neon orange, and the roar of the engine comes to life. It’s loud and powerful and makes your heartbeat full of adrenaline, a smile gracing your lips with excitement. Mattheo's expression matches yours, his eyes blown a little darker, revving the car again, the deep rumble vibrating down to his bones. He flicks on the radio before he shifts the clutch into drive, taking off down the road and merging into the mainstream flow.

It's busy, the night awakening with charged energy as Mattheo swerves in and out between gaps of cars, the wind blowing through your hair, the summer warmth of ocean breezes. "Where do you wanna go?"

You look over at him, only to find him already looking at you. The contact makes your pulse spike just like the kilometers increasing on the dash are. Your heartbeat pounds in your head, matching the roaring of the car. You don't even know him that well, and yet you have full trust in his ability to maneuver through the thick onslaught of traffic without looking.

He’s clearly got an edge of cockiness to him as his eyes continue to flicker back and forth, always taking the extra time to focus his gaze on you just a little longer. "Up for ice cream?" The casualness in which he asks makes you laugh, "Might wanna keep your eyes on the road, pretty boy."

“Why you think we’re gonna crash?”

Flashing him a playful grin, you shrug. "Not sure yet. Should I be making a bet?"

He grins, enthused by your lack of worry, his hand shifting up the gear and pressing his foot harder onto the acceleration, the two of your eyes staying locked in contact. Mattheo's eyes no longer resembled that cool tone of warmth he exerted in the restaurant. They shine brightly with a glimmer of exhilaration and a hint of darkening mischief. His smile is full and broad, expressing the thrill and joy he felt, like a boy with his favourite toy.

The car zips with smooth control in between gaps, as flashes of vehicles pass in a blur on either side. The steady hum of vibrations continues drowning out the radio completely. All that's left is the wind, and the intense atmosphere shared between the two of you, making you wanna stay in the car forever.

A wave of disbelief cascades out of you with a breath of relief when he finally breaks, slowing down for the nearest stoplight. His eyes finally break their contact from you, and he relaxes his grip, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel. Taking the next right, he pulls up to the sidewalk, outside an adorable ice cream shop. He tousles his dark curls, gazing at you with admiration he can't help but feel a sense of pride for your reaction to his flirtation. "How this?" Your body feels electric, the familiar dopamine rush fuelling every nerve. It's been so long since you got in a car this fast, you're craving more. "Not bad show pony." Grinning, you run a hand through your windblown hair, detangling the newly made knots.

"Driving or the dessert?" Mattheo asks, offering a toothy grin, angling his body towards you, resting his arms along the tops of the steering wheel. He's eager to impress. It's not often Mattheo wants to put real effort into his dates with pretty ladies. His mind constantly set on autopilot, a two-step routine. 1. Rev the beast and blow her mind and 2. rev his beast and blow her mind.

And now he sits, admiring a beautiful woman, sitting in his passenger seat, looking like she's stepped straight out one of Enzo's automobile sex magazines. Excluding the lack of clothing, though, his mind has already gone there. But there's something more about the way you're looking at him, a burning blaze of wildness that lights your face. It's radiant and alluring and he feels the pull, the magnet attracting him further in, something you're offering he didn't know he wanted.

You huff, amused, and don't answer yet, letting his question linger in the charged space between you two. "Both." Pleased with your answer he begins to exit the car when you spit out the proposed suggestion, an itch that's dying to be scratched. "But! may I counter a second opinion?" He sits back down at your polite protest, shrugging, he doesn't mind what the two of you do as long as you're enjoying yourself. "Yeah, sure just tell me where you wanna go."

"Actually, is it cool if i drive?" With a flutter of your lashes, you give him your best adorable smile full of sweetness, a known trick of yours to make a man concave in a heartbeat.

He raises an intrigued brow, wanting to make sure he's heard you correctly. "You want to drive?" The genuine smile on your face melts his heart, and he's suddenly stammering around like a dickhead, "Ah-I mean yeah alright."

As the two of you switch places, he can't help but think what the hell he's even doing, letting some random chick drive his baby. But it's that look in your eye, the sense of belonging and ease in which you sink into the driver's seat, that makes him relax with full faith you won't crash his precious car.

Gripping the soft leather of the steering wheel, you immediately feel at home in the right seat. Familiar goosebumps of excited nerves prickle at your skin, turning the ignition, awakening the car back to life. Pressing your now bare foot hard onto the acceleration, you veer off, merging back into the nighttime flow of traffic. The prodigies breathe, blasts through the vehicle as you turn the speaker up, giggling with comfort.

Mattheo watches bemused by your infectious happiness, how comfortable and free you appear. The wind fanning out through your hair, as you grip the wheel with a sense of familiarity glancing at him every so often with full-blown bliss. The car cruises into downtown Miami; zooming along the roads smoothly and Mattheo starts up the conversation again. "Not bad-" his words halt on his tongue as the car swerves, swinging around wide, cutting across the next lane spinning in a 180, positioning the car backwards. That contagious laugh fills the car once again, as blares of horns honk from left and right at the sudden commotion. His sweet brown eyes widen in surprise, and you giggle again at his reaction, snapping your head behind to see where to go. The car waltzes in and out of spaces, maneuvering skillfully between the lanes. He’s never believed in a god above, or soulmates or true love for that matter, but in that moment as his heart threatens to jump right out of his body he’s sure destiny has thrown him a bone and landed the most perfect woman in his lap. With everything he's learnt about you in the last couple hours, this knocks it all out of the park. How can a woman be this hot? His body is tense, including his cock that he swears is spurring to life faster than the miles on the dash are pushing.

He's frozen, mesmerized at the scene, stuck in a state of pure astonishment and awe. His pulse is rising as he looks at the window, watching how the car swerves sharply. Repositioning itself facing forwards, to take the next right onto the offramp, leaving behind the sounds of tires screeching and another round of horns blaring behind. Glancing at him, another free-flowing giggle escapes catching his bewildered stare, the car coming to a halt outside a charming sorbet parlour. Cutting the engine, you slip your shoes back on and exit the car. He's still a little dazed comprehending the fact he wants to skip the rest of the date and drive you straight to bed the keys landing in his lap. You offer one of your famous shit-eating grins already on the pavement, “come on, keep up, Bambi.”

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo riddle masterlist. ⤷ dividers. please do not steal, copy, or claim as your own, all work belongs to me©️pizzaapeteer 2025. ty for reading!!!

#pizzaapeteer #mattheo riddle recs

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riddlemelater-recs · 2 months ago

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nothing sparks joy in me more than re-reading the scene when they’re all shouting good night at each other🤭 It’s something I can so see them doing. Giggling and kicking my feet for real 🤧

cold comfort - mattheo riddle

summary: mattheo has one rule: any girl can share his bed (and there's been plenty) but none can stay the night. when the unexpected happens, and you're begging to be the first, you find out why he had the rule in the first place.

word count: 4k

soundtrack: between the sheets - imogen heap

a/n: wait this is kind of a saga! it just kept flowing and flowing, but i'm obsessed with it! hope you enjoy!! ♡♡

When Mattheo heard that a first year in Charms cast a spell that backfired so badly it rendered Hogwarts unable to regulate the temperature in the castle, he'd nearly spit out his firewhiskey. The mental image of Flitwick, McGonagall and all of his other professors frantically trying to fix it to no avail gave him sick pleasure as he thought about all the times they'd looked down on him because of his last name. Fuck 'em he thought. Serves them right.

He'd enjoyed his twisted happiness for several days until an unexpected early spring snowstorm rolled off the mountains, leaving the castle a veritable chamber of cold. For two days now it had nearly been cold enough for him to see the white puff of his breath inside. As others scrambled for a place in front of the fireplaces, his mood darkened, making him even more sullen than usual as talk of canceling classes and sending everyone home began to circulate; home wasn't really a place he was looking to go back to.

So now he was sat in the Great Hall in a large sweatshirt with his hood drawn up around his face, the standard dress code long since forgotten, one hand wound tightly around his second cup of black tea in an effort to warm himself while the other rubbed his tired face as he listened to the incessant chatter of his friends.

He was quietly zoned out until he caught a glimpse of you walking through the large entryway. Everyone in the castle looked in disarray: mismatched sweaters, hats and gloves in haphazard layers to stay warm, but not you, you looked like a perfect snowbunny. You were wearing tight black leggings, fur-lined boots, a thick sweater and a headband to keep your ears warm that complimented your hair. Anyone looking closely enough would see the imperceptible tug of his lips into what could almost be called a smile as you made your way to the Slytherin table and slid onto the bench next to him.

It wasn't lost on him that his best friend was beautiful. He was well and painfully aware of the fact and had been for as long as he'd known you. But, despite the thoughts that ran rampant through his mind at the sight of you, he was determined to keep you at an arm's length. Simply put, you were too good for him, too pure. You had a smile that radiated a warmth that he could feel even now, you were caring and compassionate, smart and sweet, quick with a hug and a kind word. You were everything that he wasn't. He told himself, constantly, on repeat, that it was better to have you in his life at all than to fuck it up trying for anything more.

He subtly traced your face through the corner of his eye: your long lashes, the curve of your smile, and your warm, rosy cheeks, and just like no one but you could see his smile, no one but him noticed the tiredness in your eyes. He nudged his shoulder into yours.

"Alright?" he mumbled.

You glanced up at him, his groggy morning voice and the way his curls stuck out from his hood making you feel like you'd swallowed a pixie. You felt yourself flush, your exhaustion wearing down the mask you normally kept up around him, determined to never let him know how you really felt.

"Just tired s'all" you smiled kindly, nudging him back, coaxing what could almost be another smile out of him as you met each other's eyes. "I can't sleep for shit. No matter what I do, I can't get warm, even under a pile of blankets, in my fuzziest pajamas and a jumper" you shivered.

"Skin to skin is really the only solution" Pansy chimed in with a smirk as she sank further into Draco's arms and you rolled your eyes at the two of them. She had snuck out of your room the last few nights, leaving you not only cold, but alone too.

"Couldn't agree more" Theo said, smirking, before lifting an eyebrow at you "ready, able and at your service, babe" he said, opening his arms to you as you swatted him away, laughing at his attempt to flirt with you. He smiled widely and laughed back before glancing over your shoulder at Mattheo whose eyes were narrowed in his direction.

"What, mate, it's not like you're any help, what with your strict 'no sleepover policy'" Theo chirped at him, referring to the fact that regardless of how many girls came in and out of Mattheo's bed, (which was a sizable number) not one had ever stayed the night, always kicked out in the end, despite the fact that they hoped to be the one to break his streak.

You turned to see Mattheo shooting daggers at Theo.

"S'my bed" he muttered, "more than happy to have someone in it for awhile, but a lad's got to get his rest, yeah?" he laughed and the guys laughed back.

You faked a bitter smile, returning your attention to your breakfast in front of you. You weren't naive but that didn't mean you had to sit here and listen to this, you nibbled a piece of dry toast, the mental image of Mattheo with other girls making you nauseous.

Mattheo's smile fell from his face as he watched your reaction, and wished for the thousandth time that he could tell you that he made that rule because of you. Because if he couldn't have you, then he wasn't going to waste time getting closer than necessary with anyone else; the nights he spent alone his bed his punishment for who he was, the fact that he'd never be good enough for you.

You stood abruptly and shot him a small smile as you moved to leave. He said your name quietly and reached for your hand, but you were gone before you realized it.

That night you crawled into cold sheets that felt almost damp with a chill. Despite the pile of blankets and your thick pajamas, you couldn't get warm or comfortable, tossing and turning as small shivers ran through your body and Pansy's words echoed in your head. You were desperate for warmth at this point, desperate for a good night's sleep, but there was only one bed you wanted to crawl into, and it was with the only person who refused to share it.

Surely he would break his rule for you, for his best friend? you thought; things were different between you two. But were you willing to try, to embarrass yourself if he said no? You rolled around for another hour before climbing out of bed.

Mattheo was in a fitful sleep, which was not unusual for him; his nights were frequented by nightmares, leaving him constantly groggy and grumpy, but when he heard your voice, he was sure he was dreaming, a good dream, a great dream at that.

"Mattheo" you were whispering.

He turned to see you standing at the other side of his bed and was incredibly confused, until you moved to get in... and then he panicked. He panicked because he had thoughtfully planned every way to avoid this exact situation from the moment he met you, knowing that at this proximity he wouldn't be able to control himself. And he was right. You were close, too close. He could smell your shampoo, like warm vanilla, and his hands moved on autopilot towards you, his fingers twitching to bring you closer to him before he stopped himself, inches short.

"Whatareyoudoing?!" he whisper-mumbled in frustration, the words coming out angrier than he'd intended at the range of emotions he was feeling.

You froze, your heart shattering. He was angry. He didn't want you here, he didn't want anyone here. He was going to kick you out and you'd be mortified, your friendship would never be the same, you'd taken things too far. You felt a scratch in your throat as tears threatened to spring forward.

Even in the thick darkness, Mattheo could see that he'd upset you, able to read your expressions better than his own. He could see the wobble of your bottom lip as your wide eyes looked at him and he hated himself and the situation all the more for it.

"Please Matty, m'just so cold, I can't sleep" you whispered, using the nickname that was strictly forbidden for anyone but you that made him melt.

He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed deeply, trying in his sleepy state to figure out a solution as he felt his strength waning; the figment of his every daydream was literally begging to be in his bed and he was certain he couldn't trust himself, certain that this only ended one way.

You took in his rigid form and his frustration and began to backpedal, moving to leave.

"M'sorry, it's okay, I'll go, maybe Theo—"

And you didn't even get a chance to finish your thought before you felt his large, warm hands wrap around your middle and tug you across the bed and into his chest, quickly but gently.

"C'mere" he mumbled as he settled you against him, chest to chest, your head tucked under his.

Your arms wound around him naturally, your legs intertwining, the two of you fitting together effortlessly, perfectly, like puzzle pieces. You let out a small giggle as you nuzzled into him, making yourself comfortable.

He could feel your warm breath as you let out a contented sigh, the innocent sound somehow sinful to his ears as he willed his mind to stop wandering in every direction it wanted to as he felt every dip and curve of your body against his own despite the layers of clothing between you. He kept his hands at your back, unmoving, for a moment unsure if he was even doing this right, unable to remember the last time he'd cuddled with anyone.

"Thank you" you whispered, your voice already sounding relaxed and sleepy to him as your fingers traced patterns on his back, a lavish feeling that released every ounce of tension he had been holding.

You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest as his arms hugged you to him firmly and you felt a sensation like melted honey spreading through every inch of you, as he rubbed your back, warming you from your heart to the tips of your toes for the first time in days as you fell into a hazy sleep.

The first thought Mattheo had was that he felt heavy, his limbs felt weighted and his mind felt calm. Rested he realized after a moment. His brain was slowly turning back on, piecing together the dream he'd had, it was a dream, right? You, in his bed, in his arms, pressed against him, nuzzling into him, contented and happy. It felt so real, real enough that he could still smell you, the intoxicating scent of your shampoo, could still feel you in his arms, could still ghost his fingers down your back. You hummed in response and his eyes fluttered open only to realize it was definitely not a dream.

You were here, with him, in his bed, had been all night, your body still wound perfectly in his, neither of you having let go of one another or moved an inch; if anything, it was like you melded together even further. Fuck this is nice he thought as he looked down at you curled into his chest. This was everything, everything he'd hoped it would be. He wanted to stay like this for as long as physically possible, the looming fear of it having to come to an end already upon him.

Suddenly, a pillow came flying onto the bed, askewing the thick curtains that draped around his four-poster.

"Oi wake up, will you, Riddle? Shit, it's almost noon and we've got practice in an hour" came a shout as a cacophony of voices followed behind it into the room.

You stirred in Mattheo's arms just as a hand reached through his curtains to pull them aside.

"Oh. My. Fucking. Days" Blaise drawled, annunciating every word as the others gathered around him.

"I knew it, I fucking knew it"

"Let's gooooooo!!"

"Mattttyyyy!!!" each of them shouted as the jumped up and down in excitement at the sight of you in his bed.

"Fuck off" he said, grasping the pillow they'd thrown at him and hucking it back at them, causing them to disperse as they fell apart with laughter and more cheers.

He felt you shift next to him and looked back to see that you had pulled the covers over your head, just the tips of your fingers and the top of your head visible. He yanked his curtain closed before leaning back towards you and gently grasping the blanket near your hands to pull it back.

While not the wakeup you had hoped for nor expected, Mattheo pulling back the blankets with a soft sleep-ridden smile on his face and his rumpled curls to see you was a mental image that you were sure you would think about every day for the rest of your life. You were swimming in a sea of him, engulfed in his smell, like pine and amber, and you were delightfully warm; he was going to have to pry you out of here.

"Hi" he said quietly in his morning voice.

"Hi" you whispered back.

You looked perfect. He may have thought about waking up to you, with significantly less clothing on and significantly fewer onlookers, but he'd never considered how beautiful you would look, your eyes not all the way open yet, your hair spread like a blanket of its own and fuck if he didn't want to kiss you. His eyes drifted lazily to your lips and back again and he swore he saw a flash of something in your expression in response, curiosity, or perhaps confusion.

"I should—" he started, shaking his head clear.

"—Yeah, of course! Sorry, I didn't realize the time—"

"No problem, take your time—" he said as he rolled out of bed to more cheers and shouts as he shepherded his friends out the door to give you some privacy.

You pulled the sheets back over your heard, burying yourself further into his blankets, reveling in the warmth his body had left before squealing with excitement at the way your day had started.

You were afraid that things would be awkward, but surprisingly they weren't, you were in your easy, unbothered rhythm together. Besides the giggles and teasing from your friends, nothing had changed... including the temperature. As the day went on the warmth you had woken up in faded and you felt progressively more cold settling into your bones, already dreading the cold night ahead of you.

Spending the night with Mattheo was a nice reprieve, but not something you intended to make a habit of, certain you didn't want to live through more teasing nor get your hopes up trying to read into how intimate it had felt.

You were leaving dinner, arms wound around yourself at the chill in the air when you heard a voice calling for you. You turned to see Mattheo jogging after you.

"Hey!" he called.

"Hey" you smiled back, glancing up at him as he fell into step with you.

He smiled readily back at you; he'd seemed peppier today, letting the ceaseless taunting roll of his back with a shrug of his shoulders, the unwillingness to turn everything into an argument or fistfight very uncharacteristic of him.

"Yeah, so—" he started to say, as he looked around for a moment and carded his hand through his hair. He took in how cold you looked and all he could think was how badly he wanted to fix it. "—About last night or whatever...I know it's still fucking frigid, if you wanted to come by or sleep with, er, stay with — in my — yeah, you could do it again if you wanted?"

You couldn't hide the smile the spread widely across your face, nor the way your eyes sparkled mischievously as you stopped walking to face him.

"Mattheo Riddle, are you asking me to sleep with you?" you said flirtatiously, leaning towards him.

He stopped breathing. Your proximity and the words coming out of your mouth snatched every last breath and every last thought he'd had.

"Don't fuck around with me" he said through smirked lips, his voice low and measured, holding a hint of playfulness, but also a warning.

You laughed softly back but didn't back down.

"I'll see you tonight" you said as you continued your path back to the common room, leaving him gazing after you.

Your new outfit that night wasn't lost on him. You were wearing a form-fitting pair of soft pants and a matching top that hung slightly off your shoulder, revealing the lace of a bralette. You crawled into bed beside him, smiling contentedly and curling into his arms like you were married, like this was the most normal, easy, simple thing in the world, and yet it still took him a minute to really comprehend the situation, to relax.

He barely had a minute to catch his breath before Blaise shouted across the room, "Goodnight Theo!"

"Night, Blaise!" Theo shouted back.

"Night, Enz!" Blaise said again.

"G'night!" Enzo replied.

Mattheo rubbed a hand over his face at the antic.

"I swear they don't do this every—" he started.

"—Night, Draco!" Blaise shouted.

"And Pans!" Theo chimed in.

"Full fuckin' house in here" Enzo said.

"Goodnight!" she giggled back.

"Goodnight Mattheo..." Blaise said slowly, drawling out his name.

Mattheo didn't reply.

"GOODNIGHT YN" they each shouted.

You laughed, "Goodnight!" you said back and they cheered as Mattheo turned and buried his head into your shoulder in embarrassment, letting his body weight fall on you in exasperation.

You laughed at his reaction, instinctively bringing a hand to tangle in his curls and hold him to you before you could stop yourself. It was decidedly more intimate than anything that had happened between you before, but it had just felt right, something about pulling him into you, comforting him. You paused after a moment, catching yourself... running your hands through his hair should not make you feel this way; suddenly, you were very very warm.

As if he could sense your reaction, he lifted his head just slightly to meet your eyes, his face inches from yours.

He had to feel your heart hammering in your chest at this proximity, right? As he searched your face, it felt like a veil had come down between the two of you after a night spent together on top of years spent dancing around one another like you didn't know exactly what this could be. On cue, the room around you fell deeply silent as the others settled into sleep.

Your hand slowly dropped to trace his cheek.

"YN" he said in a low voice, cautious, guarded, his tone roughly translating to "Don't".

"What?" you whispered.

"I can't" he said.

"Can't what, Matty?"

The nickname made his heart beat double-time, an impossible feat based on the way it was already drumming loudly in his ears.

"You know what" he said sternly.

"Why?" you asked, innocently, the tips of your fingers moving to trace his jaw, nearing his lips before his hand grasped yours firmly, stopping you, making you jump slightly.

His body was rigid and taught, his expression was serious, maybe even threatening to anyone but you, but all you could see was the look in his eyes that were burning with something else, something much more passionate than anger.

His words were strained, like it was a physical effort to form them.

"I. Can't. Alright? Just let it go" he said as his eyes continued to beg otherwise.

Your next words were so soft, he almost didn't hear them, might have missed them if his entire being wasn't fine tuned to hear the exact phrase.

"Kiss me" you said, somewhere between a plea and a demand.

He caught your eye and his breath caught in his throat at the way you were looking at him: your eyes wide, soft and focused on him, your chest visibly rising and falling underneath him, your body pressing against him as you wiggled your hand out of his grasp to trace his cheek. Surely he couldn't have heard you right?

"I'm not—I can't— that's not a good idea. I can't just kiss you" he said, stumbling over his words uncharacteristically.

"Why?" you asked quietly, sadly.

"No—not—fuck—" he started and stopped, trying not to upset you again.

He paused, trying to collect himself.

"Why do you think no other girl has slept in this bed?" he said seriously.

You pulled your hand back at the mention of other girls at a moment like this, but he responded by reaching to cup your cheek, to force you to look at him.

You were shaking your head.

"Because if I couldn't have you, then I didn't want anyone else. You're fucking it for me, always have been, but girls like you don't end up with guys like me and it's best I don't waste your fucking time and ruin our friendship in the process, alright?" he said resolutely, with finality.

"Matty—" you started

"—Please stop calling me that, please" he said, slamming his eyes closed, "I'm trying to maintain a semblance of self control here."

"Stop holding back!" you whisper-yelled, which caught his attention, causing his eyes to flutter open. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. I want you. I've always wanted you, ask any of our thickheaded friends, they've all known for a long time."

He blinked slowly like each individual word had to register in his head. You could see him swallow, could see the sentence process in his brain as the pad of his thumb traced your cheek and you leaned into him, pressing further against him.

"Kiss me, Matty" you said.

And the last thread of his self control snapped. He leaned in, hovering close enough that you could feel the faintest touch of his lips as they ghosted against yours, teasing you.

"If I kiss you, that's it then, you're mine" he said, like it was a threat, an ultimatum, and not the best thing that's ever happened to you.

A smile spread across your lips and you nodded against his.

"All yours" you whispered back and he caught the last of your words with his mouth, his lips taking yours as both of his hands came to grasp your face firmly but gently, pulling you into him.

You could barely suppress the hum of pleasure that left you at the sensation, the relief of the feeling of his lips pillowed against yours, the tenderness and softness so opposite of everything that he was, the duality of it all had your body tingling. One of your hands grasped at his sweatshirt while the other wound around his neck, attempting to pull him impossibly closer to you as he moaned into your mouth. His tongue tangled with yours and you swore there wasn't anything in the world but this moment, this feeling with him as you tasted the lingering flavor of cigarettes and peppermint that you would come to associate with him.

It was all grabbing, desperate hands and crashed lips at first, trying in moments to catch up on years of wanting, until it was tantalizingly slow, languid, purely achingly perfect and intimate. You were certain you would kiss him like this every single day, given the chance.

It could have been minutes or hours that you were lost in each other before he pulled back, and the whine that left your lips at the loss of contact nearly had him throwing you over his shoulder and marching you to the first broom closet he could find.

"I've spent just about every day for the last 5 years thinking about this, and I cannot believe I'm about to fuckin' say this, but I'm not gonna rush it. At the very least, I'm not gonna hook up with you in a room full of people" he said, before tilting his head, "Well, at least not the first time... after that, no promises."

You laughed quietly and swatted at his shoulder.

"C'mere" he said, pulling you into him.

You curled into his arms, head nuzzling into his neck, your head resting on his chest as he held you tightly, brushing soft kisses to your temple as you fell asleep.

E P I L O G U E

You had been so caught up in the events of the evening, you hadn't really stopped to consider what happens next, namely, how would you tell your friends? Just make an announcement at breakfast? Put on enough PDA that they drew their own conclusion? Take off the scarf you were wearing that was covering the innumerable hickies on your neck? Your mind was in a heady fog about it all as the group of you wandered towards the Great Hall.

You were glued to Mattheo's side, but that wasn't really unusual; his fingers brushed against your own as he shot you a look out of the corner of his eye, a mischievous smile on his face.

"YN!" a voice shouted behind you.

You turned to see Cedric Diggory jogging towards you and you slowed your pace, as did everyone around you. Boys had to be either brave, stupid or naive to approach you when you were with your guy friends, and you weren't sure which category to put Cedric in as his eyes met their unwelcome stares but addressed you anyway.

"Sorry— yeah, I was just wondering if maybe you'd like to—" he started.

Oh no you thought.

"—Cedric, really, that's so kind—" you interrupted, trying to prevent a scene from breaking out as you felt Mattheo tense beside you.

"—You didn't even hear what I was going to say?" he said with a laugh, somewhere between offended, annoyed and amused.

"Well, think that makes the message pretty clear then, mate" Mattheo said, the anger palpable in his tone.

"Excuse me?" Cedric replied. "I was talking to—"

Oh no you thought again.

And you weren't quick enough to intervene before Mattheo had Cedric pinned against the stone wall of the hallway, his forearm at Cedric's chest, nearly lifting him off the ground as his feet dangled for purchase.

"I don't fucking care who you were talking to. From now on, you don't talk to her at all, alright?"

"What are you, her bodyguard?" Cedric sputtered as he gasped for breath.

"No" ... a pause... "I'm her boyfriend" Mattheo growled.

You tried and failed to hide the huge smile on your face behind your manicured fingers as your friends shouted behind you.

Well, that's one way to do it you thought. ♡

#mattheo riddle recs #redeemingvillans

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