A/N: Welcome to Day 1 of my 500 follower special event! Starting off with a fic for my beloved Tommy.
Description: Someone mistakes you and your academic rival Tom Riddle to be dating.
Warnings and word count: oral f!recieving, fingering, light breath play, light dry humping/grinding, tom is a little shit but he has feelings too (mdni 18+). Word count 5.5k
tom riddle masterlist
You pushed open the doors to the library, already weary from the mountain of homework you had to do today, and what you still had to do. It wasn’t your fault you’d gotten sick and had to skip three full days of class, but you were already highly regretting having done so.
The library was packed full of students studying from upcoming examinations, so you knew finding a seat would be next to impossible, probably. You’d have to go back to your dorm if you wanted an actual desk to study on, but first…
First, you unfortunately had to secure your missed notes from someone.
You scanned the crowd until you spotted the guy you were searching for. He was bent over his desk, hard at work, and didn’t even look up as you approached. You smiled wryly to yourself, coming to a stop in front of the table.
“Hey, do you have the notes from Defence yesterday?”
At the sound of your voice, Riddle glanced up, his eyes doing a quick once-over of your figure before sighing and leaning back in his seat.
“I told you that you would regret skipping class,” he admonished, to which you rolled your eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a terrible student and if you had an ounce of common sense you wouldn’t give me the notes,” you deadpanned, holding out your hand. “Anyway, do you have them?”
Riddle was already pulling a scroll of parchment out of his bag. “Here,” he said as he handed it over to you, “I took the liberty of writing you a copy.”
“Huh,” you said in surprise, unrolling the parchment and reading it over. “That’s actually pretty nice of you.”
“Hardly. I was only attempting to ensure you wouldn’t be leaning over my shoulder during our next class.” Riddle assured you dryly, picking his quill back up and dipping it primly in the inkpot.
You snorted, pocketing the notes. “When have I ever done that?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Would you like a recapitulation in chronological order?” he asked, and you grimaced.
“Maybe next time,” you sighed. “Speaking of, shall we place a bet on our exam tomorrow?”
“I suppose,” Riddle said, setting his quill down again and fixing you with an expectant look. “Whats your offer?”
You pretended to think. “Winner gets choice of prefect hours. So I can swap my morning patrol for your night.”
Riddle leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms knowingly. It was no secret how much you detested morning hours– though to be fair, he did too.
“Intriguing,” he finally said. “I’ll accept it, and look forward to claiming my prize.”
You gave him a nasty look. “That confident already, are you?”
“I’ve scored higher than you for the past two Defence exams, haven’t I?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “So I wouldn’t call it confidence. Simply pattern recognition.”
You shook your head in exasperation, turning on your heel to leave the library. “Go to hell, Riddle.”
You heard him laugh lightly from behind you. “Good luck to you too.”
༺ ✧ ༻
“Merlin, you’re insufferable,” you grumbled the next day as Riddle dropped his parchment on the desk next to you, marked full points! in Professor Merrythought’s spindly cursive.
“I prefer ‘genius,’ but that works too,” Riddle said dryly, a smirk on his face as he watched you pack up your bag, shoving your books in haphazardly. He extended one hand, snatching up your paper with his pale fingers as his eyes zeroed in on your score- only two points below his, but that was essentially eons worse in Riddle’s eyes.
“Of course you would,” you muttered with an eye roll, though you couldn’t help but laugh a little at Riddle’s obvious triumph for scoring higher than you. You grabbed up your bag, following Riddle down the narrow aisle of seats to the door.
“If I had known the essay question would be on elemental abjuration, I wouldn’t have spent so much time covering pyromancy. And then we would’ve scored the same,” you said testily, giving him a small nod of thanks for holding the door open for you.
“Ah, but you didn’t, did you?” he said wisely as you passed him, falling into step beside you as soon as the door swung shut. “I received a 100, while you received a lowly score–”
“Of 98! Need I remind you that’s what you got on that Arithmacy assignment three weeks ago?”
Riddle’s mouth tightened. “I thought we had conceded that it was an anomaly. After all, you were the one who spilled ink on my parchment–”
“Oh please, it was a drop.”
“The size of a Sickle.”
“You exaggerate.”
“Do I?” Riddle shot you a look and you rolled your eyes.
“Listen, a 98 is a perfectly acceptable score. I will not have you slander me so.” you threatened as you walked towards the entrance to the Great Hall, sidestepping groups of other students as you did.
“I was doing no such thing,” Riddle countered immediately. “Besides, 98 is perfectly fine. It just so happens that a 100 is better.”
You threw your hands up. “I give up,” you groaned, coming to a stop beside the door. “Enjoy your victory. We have that Charms exam next week and I’ll be sure to score higher than you then.”
Riddle nodded, looking pleased. “Excellent. I accept your challenge. Shall we meet at our usual time in the library?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you said sarcastically, forcing back a smile as Riddle gave you a little dramatic bow before walking away. He had another class, but you had your lunch period now. You’d reconvene in the library in the afternoon… and in his dorm, later.
Shaking your head, you made your way into the Great Hall and over towards your friends, who were sitting and talking with a girl you didn’t recognize.
“Hey!” Eloise waved as you dropped into your seat, setting your bag down under the table. “You’re a little late.”
“Riddle and I were arguing,” you said as a way of explanation, and both she and Scarlett nodded in understanding.
“Ah,” Scarlett said wisely. “I’m assuming one of you scored higher than the other on the Defence exam?”
“Yep, and it was him,” you told her, spooning some fruit onto your plate next to your sandwich. “But only by two points.”
“I’m sure that's a lot, to him,” Eloise chimed in.
“Don’t I know it,” you chuckled to yourself, taking a sip of your water. “It’s alright, though, I’ll just beat him on the next exam.”
Eloise laughed, then her eyes lit up. “Wait! I haven’t introduced you to Stephanie yet,” she said, turning to a girl with long black hair and vivid green eyes sitting next to her. “She’s my cousin and is visiting this week.”
“Nice to meet you,” you said, giving her a smile. She smiled back.
“You as well. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, who are we talking about?” Her eyes glittered and you shot her a conspiratorial smile. Clearly, she liked gossip just as much as you did.
“Tom Riddle,” you said, and Eloise nodded wisely.
“Her biggest rival. They constantly compete for the top spot of class.”
“Who’s winning?” Stephanie asked curiously. You shrugged, popping a grape into your mouth.
“Depends on the day. Unfortunately, after the Defence exam, Riddle is in the lead.”
“Only by their standards,” Scarlett interjected. “In the professors’ eyes, they are absolute academic equals.”
“Well, mostly,” you muttered, thinking a little bitterly about Professor Slughorn. He refused to make any clear statement, but it was clear he favoured Riddle.
“Anyways. They’ve detested each other for as long as I can remember. We steer clear of him too, just to be safe,” Eloise explained.
“Because who knows, maybe he’d try to challenge us to one of their weird academic competitions,” Scarlett agreed.
“Oh no, he wouldn’t do that,” you said immediately, right as Eloise spoke too, casting you an unreadable look.
“She’s right. For whatever reason, he only ever challenges her.”
༺ ✧ ༻
“You’re late.”
The door to Riddle’s dorm room closed behind you as you dropped your bag on the floor, shrugging your cloak off as well.
“Sorry. I got caught up after dinner,” you explained, walking over to his bed and dropping down to sit on it. He watched you from his desk, expression unscrutable.
“Doing what, exactly?”
You grimaced, kicking off your shoes and pulling one of Riddle’s dark green jumpers over your head. “Finding a good excuse to slip away from my friends. They wanted to hang out in the Astronomy Tower until curfew.”
“Why in Merlin’s name would they do that?”
“Scarlett has an assignment to chart the position of the planets or something. Anyway, I had to wait until it was late enough that they would believe I was too tired to stay out any longer,” you explained, propping yourself up against Riddle’s pillows as he tidied the papers on his desk. “What have you been doing?”
“Researching for our upcoming Alchemy essay, and–” He gave you a look– “Waiting on you.”
“Sorry,” you repeated with another shrug. “It’s not like I could tell them why I was in such a hurry to get where I was going.”
“Oh, I’m well aware,” Riddle said, coming over to stand next to the bed. “I know secrecy is of utmost importance to you.”
“To both of us,” you corrected, scooting over on the bed to make room. “We need to maintain appearances, after all. Can you imagine how they’d react if they found out what we’ve been doing?”
“Rather terribly, I should imagine,” he agreed, sitting down in your now-vacated spot and letting his hand toy under the fabric of the jumper, his intent clear.
“I know,” you sighed, helping him pull the jumper further up your torso. “How else are we to keep this up?”
“I can think of a few ideas,” Riddle murmured, lowering his head and pressing his lips to yours without another word.
The kiss started off gentle enough, and you wrapped your arms around his neck to relish the feeling of his proximity. He smelled of old books and the slight spiciness of cider, a scent so distinctly him that it left no question as to who was slowly undressing you.
With the jumper now off, Riddle had much more unhindered access to your blouse. You’d pertinently undone the top few buttons before knocking on his door; just enough so the lace of your black bra peeked out. You’d seen his eyes go straight to it when you’d entered, and although he hadn’t said anything then, he was certainly making his satisfaction known now.
His fingers dipped inside of your shirt’s neckline, feathering down the fabric until he could tug it down far enough to kiss down your neck, his cheek grazing against your lace-covered breasts. You let your eyes flutter closed and held on to the back of his neck as he nibbled your skin, losing yourself to the sensation as his other hand slid under your back and ghosted up under your shirt until he reached the clasp of your bra.
It came undone with a quiet click and loosened around your chest, giving Riddle ample opportunity to slide a hand underneath and start palming your breast. Your head fell back, arching up into the sensation and the pointed tug of Riddle’s fingers on your nipple.
His other hand slid down your stomach until he reached the waistband of your skirt. He made quick work of divesting you of it, and slipping his fingers into your panties without pretense. You gasped at the sudden sensation, pussy clenching and mouth falling open.
“Already wet, I see,” he hummed, pushing his fingers insistently up against your cunt until you writhed, whimpering in impatience. “You were waiting for this, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” you rasped, dizzily raising your head. One hand was still palming your breast, and the other had two fingers lazily circling your entrance while his thumb hovered over your clit, just enough to graze the skin but not enough to relieve the pressure you felt there.
“Then I’m surprised you didn’t manage to slip away earlier,” he said, letting his index finger dip slightly inside of you before retracting it. You groaned in frustration.
“I couldn’t,” you managed to get out. “They would be– oh– they would be too suspicious.”
Riddle had finally slid one single finger inside of you and began stroking your inner walls, coaxing a rush of desire from you.
“Yes, too suspicious indeed,” he murmured, his eyes falling to your dripping cunt and increasing the pressure of his thumb against your clit a little more. “We can’t have them know what we do in private now, can we?” He finished this question with a harder touch of his thumb and a second finger added, causing you to gasp out his name and clutch at the bedsheets next to you.
“Of course, I doubt they would believe us if you told them,” he continued conversationally, his slightly strained tone the only indication he wasn’t being entirely successful at carrying along this supposedly casual discussion. “As far as they are concerned, we despise each other.”
“I never said— I never said that wasn’t true,” you gritted out, your breathing shallowing out as he began thrusting his fingers pointedly in and out of your cunt, at a pace so slow you thought you would combust. “You are an asshole, and I do– fuck!”
He pulled his fingers fully out and away from your panties, leaving you bereft and keening for more. You struggled up to prop yourself up on your elbows, glaring daggers at him.
“You fucking asshole–” you began derisively, only for your mouth to go dry as he backed up on the bed and knelt down over your legs, his elbows coming to rest on either side of your thighs and his fingers toying inquisitively with the edges of your panties.
“Would you like me to stop?” he asked innocently. “Only I rather fancied dessert– and you see, I spent too long studying in the library to try any of that treacle tart from the Great Hall you’re always raving about…”
“God, Riddle, just do it already!” You fell back on the bed in exhaustion as he tugged your panties the rest of the way down your legs and drew his mouth so close to your pussy you could feel his breath against your folds.
“Oh yes,” he murmured, inhaling deeply and allowing his breath on the exhale to feather tantalizingly against you. “This should do very nicely.”
About as slowly as you’d ever known him to go, Riddle pressed his lips to your clit, sucking the little bundle of flesh into his mouth with such exquisite pleasure you cried out his name. One of his hands moved from the side of your thigh to toy between your folds, stroking you with such a maddeningly slow speed you could’ve screamed. He’d eaten you out before, but never this slowly and never before taking this much care to ensure you felt every single sensation possible.
His index finger began shallowly thrusting into you while he licked and suckled your clit, responding to your gasps of pleasures with occasionally harder licks. Only when he had thoroughly left you a heaving mess on the bed did he draw his tongue down to your entrance and begin a series of quick strokes of his tongue into you.
Blindly, you fisted your hands into his hair and groaned his name, overwhelmed by sensation and yet not having enough. He let out a hard breath against your pussy and increased his pace, the tip of his tongue delving deeper inside while his fingers moved to play with your clit again.
“Fuck, Tom!” you choked out, his first name slipping out by accident. He was quickly losing patience and control, and you were hurtling towards your high faster than you could keep up with.
He licked into you faster, pressing hard onto your clit with his thumb again and rubbing in tight, rapid circles until you cried out, reaching your peak and coming crashing down so hard you almost lost your breath. He worked you through it, this time with his fingers, until you were a limp heap on the bed, breathing fast and head spinning.
For a long few minutes, you laid there, detachedly aware of Riddle shifting away from your legs and slowly making his way to the head of the bed.
Settling himself next to you, he stroked a hand languidly up and down your thigh until you’d recovered as much as possible. Only then did you manage to prop yourself up on your elbows and look tiredly to your right, meeting his calm mahogany eyes before your eyes shifted to the very noticeable dent in his trousers.
“Mm,” you said sleepily, pushing yourself to a seated position and wincing slightly at the tenderness of your cunt, “Would you like some help with that?”
Riddle said nothing as you threw a leg over him, settling down against the bulge and finding your way to his lips. His fingers drifted to your arms as you kissed him, feathering into the sleeves of your unbuttoned blouse as you pulled his own shirt up and over his head. Your hips began a slow rock against his cock as your lips descended down his neck and to his bare chest, dragging your fingertips down until they reached his belt buckle.
His hands caught your wrists.
“Wait,” he said softly, pausing your movements. You lifted your head with a frown to find him giving you an apologetic look.
“I have prefect duty in twenty minutes.”
“That’s plenty of time!” you protested immediately, to which he chuckled.
“Perhaps, but I’d prefer to arrive put-together on time than looking disheveled.”
You sat back down on his legs, causing him to grimace under the pressure against his cock.
“You aren’t helping,” he gritted out, and you crossed your arms.
“You aren’t letting me,” you countered. He only gave you a slight shake of his head before nudging you off of him.
“Another time,” he promised, finally succeeding in getting you off of him. You sighed in defeat and retrieved your bra and panties, along with your skirt. Riddle, too, climbed off the bed and reached for his shirt, which you couldn’t help but be slightly disappointed about.
As you were fixing your makeup and readjusting your uniform, you caught sight of something in the mirror. On the side of your neck was a fairly large mark, glistening red with slight streaks of purple.
“Riddle,” you said immediately, your hands falling from your collar. “What’s this?”
“Mm?”
You turned to face him. He was fixing his hair, his shirt still off but prefect badge already in hand. His eyes fell upon your neck and he raised an eyebrow inquisitively.
“What about it?”
“It’s a hickey. You gave me a hickey. How am I supposed to explain this to my friends?” you asked in mild irritation, digging through your bag to see if you had your concealer on hand. Thankfully, you did, but after applying the product it became clear you couldn’t completely hide the mark.
“No one will ask. And if they do, you can simply tell them it is of no concern to them,” Riddle said easily, shrugging into the sleeves of his shirt.
“I’m not so sure about that,” you muttered, but even so, you wrapped your scarf around your neck. It hid the mark well enough, you supposed.
“I can give you another in a less obvious place, if you would like,” Riddle suggested, beginning to button up his shirt.
“Oh, stop,” you said, but had to bite back a smile. “You said we don’t have time, and anyways, I should be off. I need to get a head start on that Herbology assignment.”
“You mean the one due on Monday?”
You gave him an exasperated look. “Yes. What about it?”
“I had it finished ages ago, and you haven’t started. But I suppose that will reflect in our grades, won’t it?” He raised his eyes to meet yours as he looped his tie around his neck, baiting you into an argument. You were not going to fall for it.
“Nice try, Riddle,” you said instead, swinging your bag onto your shoulder and heading towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” Riddle agreed, his attention already back on his tie.
You gave him a nod and left the room, but didn’t see his eyes lingering on your back as the door closed behind you.
༺ ✧ ༻
You pulled the collar of your cloak up as you weaved down the crowded Hogsmeade streets, following your friends as they made their way to Honeydukes. Since Stephanie’s visit to Hogwarts was coming to an end, Eloise had insisted on joining the group of students going down to the village today. You were supposed to meet Riddle in his dorm in the morning, but had needed to cancel at the last minute. Your friends would have been too suspicious otherwise, since they knew you would never pass up an opportunity for butterbeer.
“You have to try the chocolate-covered cockroaches,” Eloise told Stephanie as you approached the shop. “They sound gross, but they’re actually pretty–”
“A chocolate covered what?” Stephanie gasped, coming to a stop.
“Yeah, cockroaches. But like I said, they’re not too bad,” Eloise said, waving her hand dismissively. Stephanie shook her head, taking a step back.
“Absolutely not! You try to make me eat one of those and I’ll–” She broke off suddenly, her attention turned towards you and frowning at something over your shoulder. “Who’s that?”
Confused, you turned around, only for your stomach to drop when you saw exactly who was coming up behind you.
“Hey!” you said immediately, nerves making their way into your tone before you could stop them. Riddle had never before dared to approach you with your friends present. You had both agreed it would be better to keep up appearances than to risk it.
“Hello,” Riddle said politely, his eyes flicking towards the half-empty bottle in your hand. “I see you already secured your butterbeer.”
Despite yourself, you smiled a little. “Couldn’t miss it, could I?”
“Of course not,” he agreed smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Will I see you tonight for our usual study session?”
Today was Saturday, so your usual study session consisted of Riddle’s fingers knuckle-deep inside of you.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” you assured him. The corner of his mouth curled up in a smile.
“Excellent. I will see you later,” he said, and gave you a little nod before tilting his head curiously to the side. “By the way, it appears you have something on the side of your neck.”
Your eyes widened and you opened your mouth to stammer out some sort of defensive response, but he had already turned around and was walking away. The slight stiffness of his shoulders was the only indication you hadn’t completely hallucinated that comment.
Already, irritation crept in. You’d both agreed to keep interactions to a minimum, and now here he was, making what was practically a blatant reference to the hickey he had given you on your neck!
Insufferable man, you grumbled to yourself, but you forced yourself to quickly recover and turn to face your friends again.
“I swear, Riddle needs to learn to mind his business,” you told them, shaking your head wryly.
“That’s Tom Riddle?” Stephanie asked, her mouth half-open in shock. You frowned, glancing behind you at Riddle’s retreating form and taking a sip of your butterbeer.
“Yeah? What about him?”
“I thought you two were dating!”
You choked on your butterbeer.
“What?” you gasped when you could finally breathe again. “Dating?!”
“Yes! You seemed awfully comfortable with each other.”
You quickly shook your head. “We’re definitely not dating,” you assured her. “We just study together so often… well, I guess we get used to each other.” You shrugged hoping to dismiss the comment and change the topic. Unfortunately, it appeared she had other ideas.
Stephanie made a face. “Academic rivals who study together? Aren’t you supposed to… I don’t know, ignore each other except in class?”
“No. How else are we supposed to judge the other’s progress?” you asked, looking to Eloise and Scarlett for backup. To your chagrin, they were giving you odd looks too. “What?”
“Nothing,” Scarlett said, shaking her head but looking unconvinced. “It’s just that… well, you and Riddle do seem to spend a lot of time together.”
You let out what was intended to be a careless laugh, but it came out more nervous. “We just study together; that’s all,” you repeated, but the excuse sounded feeble in your ears. What would they say if they knew about all the other times you saw Riddle that was definitely not just studying?
“Stephanie is right, though,” Eloise agreed. “You claim to hate him, but…”
“This is ridiculous,” you said stubbornly, ignoring the rising fear that all the times you had ignored that little voice in your head, saying you couldn’t continue fucking Riddle and have things remain the same forever.
“Is it, though?” Stephanie asked, following you as you took a couple steps in the direction of Honeydukes. You had to move this conversation along, now. “Are you sure you don’t like him?”
You scoffed. “No, we hate each other,” you said, like it should be obvious, but you weren’t sure if you believed yourself anymore. From the corner of your eye, you watched as your friends exchanged glances. Your stomach felt like it had bottomed out, and your heart was sinking.
Why had Riddle felt the need to make that comment about your not-so-obvious hickey? You thought you had hidden it pretty well, all things considered. But now, your friends were beginning to suspect there was more to your rivalry with Riddle than you let on, and you were losing confidence in your ability to keep everything under control.
Your fist clenched by your side and you forced yourself to keep walking.
Merlin, you hated him.
༺ ✧ ༻
The door to Riddle’s dorm slammed shut behind you.
You marched in, dumping your cloak and bag unceremoniously on the floor and stalking over to where Riddle was seated at his desk, studying. He didn’t even look up.
“What the hell was that?” you snapped, frustration at him finally pouring over.
With a maddeningly slow speed, he finished writing his sentence and put his quill down, looking up at you with a calm expression on his face.
“What was what?”
“That shit you pulled in Hogsmeade! Talking to me, pointing out the hickey–”
“Oh, am I not allowed to talk to you? I do apologise,” he drawled, in a tone that made it very clear he was not sorry in the least.
“Stop playing dumb, Riddle, it’s not a good look. You could’ve blown our whole cover,” you grumbled, crossing your arms and dropping into a seat on the bed.
“Our cover?” Riddle asked, standing up and coming over to stand near you. “And what would that be? You mean, you pretending to hate me?”
The color drained from your face. “I’m not pretending anything.”
“Aren’t you?” He raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms to mirror your position and giving you an appraising look. “Or are you simply too much of a coward to admit it yet?”
You launched up. “What the fuck is your problem?” you hissed, anger pulsing through your veins. “I thought we agreed that this was just going to be– to be–”
“To be what, exactly?”
“Just sex!” you burst out. “Nothing more, nothing less. I thought we both understood that it would never go any farther because we didn’t want it to.”
Riddle scoffed. “Are you presuming to tell me that you never wanted anything more than sex? Ever?”
You faltered. Yes, you had wanted more on occasion, but you would have never admitted it to yourself and least of all to Riddle. You knew he would never want the same– plus, you were completely fine with things just staying physical. However much you loathed him, you did have to concede he was good in bed.
“I’m not presuming to tell you anything,” you said instead, artfully evading the question and pressing your hand to your head. A dull headache was coming on. “All I’m saying is that you– that we– should be more careful in the future. My friends are suspicious enough as it is. So maybe we should… I don’t know. Maybe we should take a break, for a while.”
Riddle’s eyebrows shot up. “A break?”
“Just for a little bit. Until things cool down,” you said, hoping the waver in your voice wasn’t detectable. Unfortunately for you, Riddle noticed everything– especially when it came to you.
“A break,” he repeated, almost derisively. “Is that really what you want?”
“It’s what’s best,” you said stubbornly. Riddle shook his head, beginning to pace in front of you.
“That isn’t what you want,” he said slowly. “Not at all.”
You scoffed. “Says who?”
“Me. And, of course, your mind.”
You frowned. “My mind–?” Your heart dropped. “You used Legilimancy on me?”
Riddle shrugged. “Perhaps,” he said lightly. “If you weren’t telling me the truth, I knew your thoughts would.”
“My God, Riddle, has anyone ever told you that you are such a prick?”
“Then I was completely right,” you muttered, anger and hurt simmering in your chest. You grit your teeth as you stood, pushing past him and striding towards the door. Or trying to, at least. A hand on your waist stopped you.
You whirled back around, ready to argue or yell or anything that would allow you to release your feelings without telling him anything else, but the look in his eyes stopped you.
“I do not wish to take a break from you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper but so stern you knew it was not a request. “In fact, I wish quite the opposite.”
You tilted your chin up defiantly. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Must I spell it out for you? I–” He grit his teeth and straightened up, looking like this was the most painful conversation he’d ever had. “I enjoy our activities. I admit I was hesitant at first, but it has turned out to be a most pleasurable experience and–”
“My God, get to the point!” you exclaimed in exasperation, taking a step back from him. His hand fell from your waist but he quickly took a step forwards, glaring down at you and clenching his fists by his side.
“The point is that I would very much prefer we never take a break from each other. Ever. Or at least– at least not in the foreseeable future.”
“Sorry, Riddle, but are you suggesting we date?” you scoffed, the idea so preposterous you could only laugh. His answer made your stomach drop.
“Yes.”
All comebacks died on your tongue and your hands fell limply by your sides, unable to do anything except stare.
“Are– are you being serious?” you asked when you finally got your voice back, half-convinced this was a ploy but losing confidence when you saw the way Riddle’s jaw was clenched, and the way his fingers were twitching agitatedly against the fabric of his robes, like he was having to resist the urge to reach out and touch you.
You were surprised to realise you would like nothing more than for him to touch you at this very moment.
“Riddle,” you said breathlessly, then– “Tom.”
You took a careful step forward, waiting until your front brushed up against his to raise your hand and slide it over his jaw. He let out a hard breath, tilting his head downwards until his lips were mere centimeters from yours.
“Yes,” you whispered, then, slowly, pressed your lips to his.
You’d long ago lost count of the number of times you’d kissed Tom, or he’d kissed you. It had almost always been before or after sex, very rarely during. Aside from your first kiss– approximately seven hours before you’d pulled him into bed for the very first time and started this entire arrangement– you’d never kissed him without any pretense of sex. So this felt different, certainly, but not at all disagreeable.
It actually felt rather nice.
You looped your arms around his neck and held yourself closer, shifting slightly against the growing bulge in his trousers with a self-satisfied []. He groaned, his hips bumping into yours impatiently. You laughed and drew back, fixing him with a mock-reprimanding look.
“Can’t even wait a whole five minutes?” you remarked, earning an eye roll and exasperated sigh.
“If you recall, last time we met I was left thoroughly unsatisfied,” he reminded you.
“At your insistence!” you countered. He simply shrugged, taking a step back and leading you to the bed with him.
“Well, then, it appears we have unfinished business,” he murmured, falling back onto the mattress and pulling you with him.
“It appears we do,” you agreed against his lips, before he tugged you against him in a searing kiss.
A/N: I debated extending this last scene but figured I was already at 5.5k so I should leave it, or potentially revisit it in a drabble if anyone is interested.
request " lane how about enemies to
lovers. Percy x masochist reader smut "
"Fu- Fuck―" You were utterly and quite literally helpless ... overstimulated from cumming too much, brought to you by no other than your rival and the annoying kid of one god of the sea. Percy Jackson. His mouth works you relentless over the edge, again and again, until you're not even sure if it's pleasure or pain. Heck, the guy doesn't even come up to breathe, okay??
Oh, and curse his pretty face, buried between your thighs like he belongs. Hazy half lidded sea green eyes focused on each and every twitch of your body, your face. Percy 'certified munch' Jackson gets off on giving you sweet, unwanted pleasure. And if you weren't so into it ... if you weren't such a masochist, oh well. You can't even think about it when his damn tongue flicks against your sweet pearl, hidden behind a bit of skin that he easily yet gently peels away for his own enjoyment.
"Tell me again how you hate me, sweet girl," he mutters against your thighs, teasing as he blows some air against your twitching clit. Another lick, more air... you whine. "Hm?" It's so unfair ― he knows you can't answer like that. Can't even form a coherent thought... "You don't like that?" He watches as you shake your head, a defiant look on your face now that he wasn't bullying another orgasm out of you.
"No?" His head tilts, and he gently rubs two fingers along your glistening folds, like it doesn't immediately have you even more wet. It's nasty, you think, and humiliating... how his condescending tone makes you crave even more of this. His eyes light up like he realizes, and so he coos at you. "Damn, you really get off on this, hm?" It has you huffing, cheeks bright red as you try and utter words that will explain just why you enjoy his touch so much. But there is no use. You're like utter putty in his two caring hands. Percy doesn't take advantage of your trust, he just takes advantage of your wide open thighs and your little twitching hole that beckons him to taste you again ♡
"Ngh- No, Shit ―" The tip of his tongue nudges your little bundle after edging you real good for some time, and it has you seeing stars in a matter of mere seconds.
"This was like what ― 3 times?" It's almost just a scoff when he opens his mouth again, but Percy is careful ... always is. His hands are gentle and soft against your leg, helping you come down from yet another orgasm, sponsored by the oceans' offspring. Like, now it's just getting ridiculous.
He's all proud grin and bedroom eyes when he glances at you, humming a "gimme five. Let's make it an even number." And you think you'll die! Right here in his cabin, on his stupid whale shark sheets because the menace won't let you crawl away...
How'd you even end up here?? With him!!
"I'll gut you...," you somehow breathe out, chest rising up and down, glare ever so present. And he just laughs, airy, obnoxious, and shakes his head at your little declaration of war, "at this rate, i think i might gut you sweetheart..." his flat hand presses against your lower tummy to 'prove a point'. And your cheeks burn, oh they do..., because the point is clear. "Fuck you," you grunt.
about ! a little further into your arrangement , Percy realizes that only the Gods can judge him now. So he lets them watch !
warning ! smut ! oral, female receiving. marking in the form of hickeys and bites. fingering. some religious themes , but it's mild. doing stuff in a chapel.
" Oh Gods ! "
Noises of pure sin were ringing out in the castle's grand chapel ― a holy place of equal devotion and transgression. And one royal knight was being the cause of it. His large and rough hands splayed over the soft and tender skin of the inner thighs of a princess , her eyes wide in wonder when his mouth decorated the skin with a variety of plum colored marks that would hopefully fade come tomorrow , and the faint outline of his teeth . . .
" The Gods aren't here , princess. " Percy Jackson found light amusement in the way you were still calling out to them , even with his fingers buried deep into your core. You were a clever girl , so you must know that the Gods were no longer with you. Your soul was tainted the very moment you had allowed your royal knight between your legs.
" Just me. " Not that he wouldn't mind you calling him your god. The young man was practically power tripping whenever he would get to make you feel good. He was privileged in that way , like you'd personally handed him the key to your pleasure.
( Percy was oblivious to the fact that he was that key to said pleasure. )
If a younger him were to see what kind of ownership a slightly older him was putting on his princess ( by leaving violent looking little marks ) , he was sure that a younger him would beg the Gods for forgiveness by praying in this very chapel. Percy was never excellent at praying , anyway. And in a way , he was still that boy. But instead of messily reciting verses he had no real belief in , he was relishing the pain in his knees while kneeling before you.
With skill , his finger prodded your spongy walls with such gentleness only a man in love would use to make his woman fall apart. His sea green eyes never left your face when he curved them deeper into your sensitive spots. Your knight was fixated on each of your expressions , and how your lips would part for him in heavy breaths. You were holding back your moans , and he allowed it only for the knowledge that your normally more vocal endeavors would probably wake the whole castle.
But your core ― fluttering around his digits , and oh so sticky ― was making up for the lack of noise.
Even in almost darkness , with the only light source being a bunch of candles and torches sparsely illuminating the both of you , he could see some of your wetness pool under you in a small puddle of pure sin.
Percy hoped it would completely seep into the wood and stay there forever . . .
Your eyes widened when he leaned forward and pushed your nightgown further up your legs , just to bury his head underneath. His tongue darted out to taste you , and a groan followed suit. You were lost in the pleasure of your knight eating you like his last meal . . . like he had never tasted anything sweeter than you. His fingers were still coaxing you closer and closer to the edge , but there was nothing harsh about it. Not even when he felt himself become hard. He was taking his sweet time with you , like a real lover should.
His warm mouth then enclosed your twitching clit with a soft hum , and you had to press your own hand over your lips to stifle a loud moan from spilling over them.
Your body jerked against the pew , your legs threatening to shut around him. Percy firmly kept you wide open for him. " It's okay , princess . . . " he looked up at you like your pleasure brought him pleasure. And it did ! His hips nudged against the floor for any kind of friction , he hoped you wouldn't notice.
" Percy I . . . I'm . . . " " Oh , i know. "
He sounded almost smug when he cooed at you to just let go.
" Just let go for me. " That alone had you seeing stars. And Percy thought you looked so pretty , allowing him to make you fall apart. His thumb was gently grazing the skin of your inner thighs to help you slowly come down , marked and left tender by his mouth.
𝔇 𝔢 𝔳 𝔬 𝔱 𝔢 𝔢 - Percy Jackson x reader x Jason grace God au !! Apollo!reader
Summary: In a hidden temple near Camp Half-Blood, a curious explorer encounters the gods Perseus and Jason, leading to an intense, consensual encounter filled with soft dominance, oral pleasures, thigh play, and dry humping. After falling asleep in their arms, the explorer wakes to find them gone and flees the ruins, while the gods observe her departure, confident in their lingering bond.
WARNING: This fanfic contains explicit NSFW content, including graphic sexual acts, dominance/submission dynamics, and mythological fantasy elements. Reader discretion advised for sensitive themes like power imbalances and intense eroticism.
You never paid much attention to the "forbidden texts" in the Apollo cabin. That is—until you found the ones no one even knew were there. Dusty scrolls wedged behind an old trophy case, etched with strange, ancient runes that hummed with power. They whispered names not found in modern Camp Half-Blood lore. Names long forgotten. Perseus. Jason.
Not Jackson. Not Grace. No surnames. Just Perseus, God of Loyalty and Jason, God of Bravery.
Something in you pulsed when you read about them. They weren’t myths to you—they felt real. So you followed the trail. A half-broken map, star charts no one had used in centuries, and a path through the deepest parts of the forest where Apollo’s sunlight barely reached.
You hadn’t expected to find a temple. It was nearly swallowed whole by nature. Ivy curled around broken columns. Vines strangled the marble statues of two tall figures—one with a trident chipped at the edges, the other clutching a spear worn smooth by wind.
Curiosity bit harder than fear ever could. You stepped inside. Dust caught in your throat. It smelled like rain, stone, and something old. Holy. Forgotten.
The shrines were still there. Cracked offerings. Rusted drachma. Faded laurels. A shield, blackened and left leaning. A goblet untouched by time.
Jason exhaled slowly. He stood in a beam of light filtering through the ruined roof, letting the storm clouds inside him settle. The thunder had been quiet for too long.
“She’s a demigod,” he said, his voice more whole than Percy’s but lined with the same rust of time. “Apollo’s blood. Can’t you feel it?”
His fingers tightened around the hilt of the invisible sword at his waist. Habit, more than threat. His eyes were on you. Watching. Measuring. Not with anger—no. But with caution.
Because people only came here to take. To prove a myth wrong. Or right. To challenge them. To steal.
But you… you looked lost. Curious. Soft light shimmered around you, and Jason could see the Apollo lineage clearly now. Not just in power—but in stubbornness.
He tilted his head. “Do you think she knows who we are?” he asked.
Percy scoffed, finally shifting. “No one remembers gods who stopped asking to be remembered.”
Dust-choked scrolls wedged behind an old trophy case, humming with power, marked in ancient runes that seemed to glow faintly in the dark. They whispered names lost to Camp Half-Blood lore.
Perseus. Jason.
Not Jackson. Not Grace. No surnames—just Perseus, God of Loyalty, and Jason, God of Bravery. Reading about them sent a shiver through your spine. They didn’t feel like myths—they felt alive. Watching. Waiting.
The pull was impossible to ignore. A half-burned map, forgotten star charts, and a path that cut deep into the forest where Apollo’s sunlight barely touched. And at the end of that shadowed trail—you found a temple. Hidden. Devoured by vines. Cracked columns leaned against one another, and ivy hugged the marble statues of two long-forgotten heroes.
“Someone… really worshipped you,” you muttered to the empty room.
The words didn’t echo. They… answered.
“You still can.”
You spun so fast you nearly tripped over a broken column. Two men stood in the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, shadows painting their faces sharp. One leaned casually against a cracked pillar, eyes glinting with a teasing warmth. The other stood straighter, silent, his presence heavier than stone.
“Who…” your voice caught. “Who are you?”
The taller one’s lips curved. “You already know our names. You read them.”
Your mouth went dry. “…Perseus. Jason.”
Perseus—dark-haired, eyes deep as the ocean—smiled faintly. “It’s been… centuries since anyone said those names here.”
Jason stepped closer, his voice lower, rough from disuse. “You shouldn’t be here. But… we don’t mind the company.”
You were just about to leave—hand brushing the cold doorframe—when fingers curled around your wrist. Warm. Firm.
“Leaving so soon?” Perseus murmured, pulling you closer.
Another presence pressed close from behind. You froze, caught between them, your pulse thundering in your ears.
“It’s been so long since we’ve seen anyone,” Jason said, his breath brushing your ear. “…Let alone a woman.
Your heart hammered against your ribs as Jason's body heat seeped through your clothes from behind, his chest solid and unyielding against your back. Perseus's grip on your wrist tightened just enough to send a spark up your arm, his ocean-deep eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the air in the temple feel thicker, charged like the moments before a storm.
"We don't bite," Perseus said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. His free hand rose to trace the line of your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. The touch was electric, igniting a warmth low in your belly that you hadn't expected. Centuries of isolation hung in his gaze, but so did hunger—raw, unfiltered.
Jason's hands settled on your hips, fingers digging in with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Unless you want us to." His words were gravelly, laced with a bravery that dared you to push back, to run, or to surrender.
You should have pulled away. This was a temple to forgotten gods, a place of myths and madness. But the vines seemed to tighten around the columns, as if the forest itself held its breath, urging you deeper into the shadows. The scrolls' whispers echoed in your mind—loyalty and bravery intertwined, eternal.
Perseus's mouth hovered inches from yours, his breath mingling with your own. "Stay," he murmured, and it wasn't a request. His lips captured yours in a kiss that started slow, exploratory, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to taste you deeply. You gasped into his mouth, the sound muffled as Jason's hands slid up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt.
The world narrowed to the press of their bodies, the ancient stone cool against your palms as you braced against a pillar for balance. Jason's erection hardened against your ass, thick and insistent, grinding slowly as he nipped at your neck. "You've awakened something," he growled, one hand slipping under your hem to caress the bare skin of your stomach, inching higher.
Perseus broke the kiss, his eyes dark with need. He tugged your shirt up and over your head in one fluid motion, exposing your skin to the dim light filtering through the vines. His mouth descended on your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, while Jason's fingers found the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with practiced ease. Your breasts spilled free, nipples hardening in the cool air, and Jason's hands cupped them immediately, rolling the peaks between his calloused thumbs.
A moan escaped you, unbidden, as pleasure shot straight to your core. Wetness gathered between your thighs, your body betraying any lingering thoughts of escape. Perseus dropped to his knees before you, his hands working at the button of your jeans, peeling them down along with your panties. The forest air kissed your exposed pussy, slick and aching, and he looked up at you with a wicked smile.
"Beautiful," he breathed, before leaning in to drag his tongue along your folds, lapping at your clit with deliberate strokes. You bucked against his mouth, fingers tangling in his dark hair, while Jason pressed his clothed cock harder against you from behind, his own hands roaming—pinching your nipples, tracing the curve of your waist.
The temple hummed around you, runes on the walls flickering to life as if feeding on the energy building between the three of you. Jason's zipper rasped open, and the hot length of his cock slapped against your bare ass, precum smearing your skin. He guided your hand back to wrap around him, showing you how to stroke his thick shaft, veins pulsing under your fingers.
"That's it," Jason urged, his voice strained. Perseus sucked your clit harder, two fingers plunging into your pussy, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Tension coiled tight in your belly, the mystical pull of the place amplifying every sensation—their touches, their scents of salt and earth, the ancient power thrumming in their veins.
You were theirs now, caught in the web of loyalty and bravery, and as your orgasm crested, crashing over you in waves that left you trembling between them, you knew leaving was no longer an option. The gods had found their devotee, and the night was just beginning.
Your body still quivered from the aftershocks of your release, Perseus's mouth lingering on your inner thighs as he lapped up the last traces of your arousal. Jason's cock throbbed in your hand, slick with his precum, but he pulled back gently, his touch turning tender as he kissed the nape of your neck. They guided you down onto a bed of soft moss and fallen leaves that seemed to appear from nowhere in the temple's heart, the ancient stones warming beneath you like a living pulse.
"Shh, easy now," Perseus whispered, his voice a soothing wave as he settled beside you, one arm draping over your waist. His fingers traced lazy circles on your hip, coaxing you to relax into their hold. Jason mirrored him on your other side, his broader frame enveloping you protectively, a soft dom's restraint evident in how he held back his own urgency, prioritizing your comfort.
You felt small between them, submissive in the best way—their presence overwhelming yet gentle, urging you to yield without force. Perseus shifted, pulling you onto his lap so you straddled his thigh, the coarse fabric of his pants rubbing against your sensitive folds. "Ride it," he encouraged softly, hands on your ass guiding your movements. You rocked forward, grinding your pussy along the hard muscle of his leg, the friction building a fresh ache as wetness coated his pants.
Jason watched with hooded eyes, his hand stroking his cock slowly while you humped Perseus's thigh. The dry humping motion grew frantic under their murmured praises—"Good girl," Jason rumbled, leaning in to capture your lips in a deep kiss that muffled your whimpers. Perseus's hands kneaded your cheeks, spreading them slightly as you slid back and forth, your clit catching on the seam of his pants with each pass.
The rhythm pulled another moan from you, your body arching as pleasure simmered low. Jason broke the kiss, nudging your head down toward Perseus's lap. "Taste him," he said, voice husky but patient. You obeyed, sliding off Perseus's thigh to kneel between his legs. His cock sprang free when you tugged his pants open, thick and veined, the tip glistening. Wrapping your lips around the head, you sucked gently at first, tongue swirling over the slit to draw out his salty flavor.
Perseus groaned, fingers threading through your hair without pushing, letting you set the pace. You bobbed deeper, hollowing your cheeks as you took more of him in, the stretch of your mouth mirroring the fullness you craved elsewhere. Jason knelt behind you, his hands parting your thighs. "My turn," he murmured, and before you could adjust, his tongue delved into your pussy from behind, flat and broad, licking up your slick folds with firm, insistent strokes.
You keened around Perseus's cock, the vibration making him buck lightly into your mouth. Jason ate you out ravenously yet softly, sucking your clit between his lips, then plunging his tongue inside you, fucking you with it while his thumbs massaged your thighs. The dual assault had you trembling, saliva dripping down Perseus's shaft as you slurped messily, your free hand bracing on his thigh.
They switched seamlessly—Jason pulling you up to straddle his lap now, but instead of entering you, he positioned his cock between your thighs. "Hold them together," he instructed gently, and you did, pressing your soft flesh around his hard length. He thrust forward, the head of his cock nudging your clit with each slide, precum easing the glide along your skin. Perseus watched, stroking himself as you whimpered, the thigh fucking sending jolts through your core.
"You're doing so well for us," Perseus praised, leaning in to suckle your breasts, teeth grazing your nipples just enough to sting sweetly. Jason's pace quickened, his cock slipping faster between your thighs, the friction building until you felt him tense. He came with a low grunt, hot spurts painting your skin and dripping down your legs, marking you as his.
The sight pushed you over again, your pussy clenching on nothing as waves of ecstasy rolled through you. Perseus followed soon after, guiding your mouth back to him for a few final sucks before spilling down your throat, his release thick and warm. Exhausted, sated, you collapsed between them, their arms wrapping around you like a cocoon. The temple's hum faded to a lullaby, and sleep claimed you swiftly, lulled by their steady breaths.
Midnight's chill woke you first, the air thick with silence. Your eyes fluttered open to darkness, the vines casting long shadows across empty stone. Perseus and Jason were gone—no warmth, no presence, just the faint echo of their touches lingering on your skin. Panic flickered, but so did opportunity. Heart pounding, you scrambled for your clothes, pulling them on haphazardly over the sticky remnants of their claim.
The doorway loomed, unguarded. You took your chance, slipping out into the forest path, branches whispering as you fled the ruins. The temple's pull weakened with each step, the night swallowing your escape as you raced toward the safety of Camp Half-Blood, the gods' absence a mystery you'd unravel another day—or perhaps never.
***
Perseus watched from the shadows as you slipped through the temple's arched doorway, your footsteps fading into the night's hush. A faint smile tugged at his lips, the taste of your submission still fresh on his tongue. 'She runs,' he murmured to Jason, who stood beside him, arms crossed over his broad chest, the moonlight glinting off his golden hair.
Jason's eyes, sharp as a blade, followed your retreating form until the vines swallowed you whole. 'As mortals do when the divine burns too bright,' he replied, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the ancient stones. He shifted, adjusting the front of his pants where the ache of restraint lingered—your thighs had gripped him so perfectly, slick with his release, but he'd held back from claiming you fully. Soft doms, after all, savored the yield more than the conquest.
The temple's runes pulsed once more, dimming as your energy ebbed away. Perseus placed a hand on the cool altar, feeling the residual hum of your shared ecstasy—the way you'd ground against his thigh, pussy weeping arousal onto the fabric; how your mouth had enveloped his cock, sucking with eager devotion; Jason's tongue delving deep into your folds, lapping at your clit until you shattered. It had been centuries since a mortal stirred them so, brave enough to enter their sanctum, submissive enough to let them guide.
'Will she return?' Jason asked, though his tone held no doubt. Perseus chuckled softly, turning to face his brother-god. 'Loyalty binds her now, whether she knows it or not. Bravery will draw her back.' They shared a knowing glance, the air between them thickening with unspoken promise. For now, they let you flee—to Camp Half-Blood, to your fragile world—but the mark of gods was etched in your skin, your dreams, your core. The night deepened, and they melted into the temple's embrace, waiting for the pull to summon you again.
യ (p. jackson ) 𓂃 you hate the look of blood on demigods; every drop of the reddish liquid only serves as a bleak reminder of all the grueling work you have to do as a healer. however, an unassuming tuesday makes you realize that sometimes, blood looks oh so good on a certain son of poseidon.
alternatively, where you realize you want percy after he shows up to the infirmary bloodied and gashed.
cws. nsfw / smut under the cut , 18+ only ; minors dni ! fem apollo reader. fingering (f! receiving) . oral (m! receiving) . unprotected piv & he cums inside . . . reader is referred to as “pretty girl”, “my girl”. percy and reader are adults. percy is cocky. implied post-hoo. porn with some plot . lmk if i missed any other warnings !
wc. 4054 words. requested by @myrapottah
sol ‘s note : though this was requested (like MONTHS ago . . . i'm sorry myra babes) , i’d like to dedicate this fic to a special recent achievement of mine: passing nursing school in one of the best schools in my state ! :’) the fic’s quite long, but i had so so so much fun writing her. i hope u all enjoy reading !
tuesdays were always training days.
every tuesday of the week, campers would flock towards the training ground, celestial bronze weapons in hand, picking fights with straw dummies in bronze armor. oftentimes, campers who grew bored of the non-moving, stationary strawmen flocked together and decided to use themselves as their own training dummies. this became a new, innovative method of melee fight teaching, and has carried on to the present day.
this demigod versus demigod training brawls always happen on tuesdays.
it was an unspoken tradition, written in the minds of these orange-clad campers like it was law. tuesdays were always training days. for the rest of camp, it was a day to hone and develop new skills, to have a better chance at defending themselves against monsters that were prevalent outsidecamp half blood’s borders. it was because of this reasoning that the campers got far too carried away with their training.
for the apollo cabin, it’s the worst day of the week.
with the influx of injured campers—all with injuries ranging from pin-sized papercuts to almost amputations—the infirmary was almost always full. more often than not, training days meant that the apollo cabin had to be spread thinner to accommodate the number of people who needed medical attention.
the apollo cabin holds a mild dislike for tuesdays. you do, especially.
you often regretted saying yes. after leaving camp half blood years ago, you thought it’d be a nice few years in the mortal world—pursuing your education and bettering your skills away from the world of deadly prophecies and gods and goddesses. it would have been a nice break, until chiron reached out to you privately, asking for a small favor.
according to him, before you left and for a while after, the tuesdays system was never this bad. apollo could manage it enough; they didn’t need to spread themselves out so thin to treat injured campers.
the system worsened after chiron asked percy jackson to train the campers in swordfighting. this led to a staggering increase in injured demigods.
you thought it was a false cause—post hoc ergo propter hoc, or whatever. but, after you said yes to chiron’s plea to come back to camp and help apollo manage injuries, you saw with your own eyes that chiron wasn't just incorrectly assuming that because one event followed another, the first event caused the second.
you saw how the poor campers were tripping over themselves and nearly getting mauled because of their efforts in swordfighting. and—upon asking a patient with a finger that almost fell off—it wasn’t because of his methods of teaching. no, it was because the kids wanted to be like him so bad, they went to extremes just to get better, to be like their hero, percy jackson.
the apollo cabin held a mild dislike for tuesdays. you? you loathed them.
this tuesday, however, is an exception.
“jackson…” you pause. you have to chastise yourself. healers aren’t supposed to sound this horrified upon seeing their patients, no matter how battered, bloody, or bruised they are. they aren’t supposed to sound horrified at all. you try to mask it with a cough. “what…happened to you?”
threre’s a gash. no, not even that—to call it a gash would be an insult to the mere magnitude of it. it was an ugly, jagged line, the origin at the dead center of his chest. it curls around his pectorals, and you can see it end on a point between his armpit and his bicep. from a blunt weapon, most likely. blood is splattered on his chest like a bad watercolor painting, but thankfully, the wound isn’t gushing out any blood at all.
he’s led to the bed—thank you, you tell his companion—and when he’s sat down, the muscles of his abdomen flex ever so noticeably.
my gods, was his body always this defined?
a traitorous, unserious voice in your head points that fact out, and heat immediately rushes to your cheeks.
he straightens at your gaze.
“you should see the other guy,” he tells you, snapping you out of your thoughts.
your eyebrows furrow, your mouth curls into a wince just thinking of all the healing you’ll have to do to this poor other camper. “i hope i don't get to see the other guy at all.”
you glance at the pitcher of lukewarm water used to clean wounds.
percy is the son of poseidon. the pitcher would be an easy way to heal him—you wouldn’t need to spend so much cleaning his large wound and sewing it up. you probably wouldn’t even need to consume the entire pitcher to make the wound disappear.
it’s convenient, the voice in your head says, but it comes at the cost of you not seeing or touching percy’s muscles.
it’s a moral and ethical dilemma.
you shake your head and turn to the cabinet above you. from there, you pull out sterile gloves, cotton balls, antiseptic, a needle and thread, and some nectar. in the end, the traitorous voice prevails.
after you put the gloves on, you tell him, “i’ll start by cleaning your wound.” you douse the cotton ball in antiseptic. “your wound’s quite big, it might sting.”
he purses his lips and nods, as if steeling himself.
you circle the edges of his wound with antiseptic. once clean, you take a nectar-doused cotton ball and dab it gently against the open wound.
his stomach flexes at the contact. his arms brace against the bed frame, and you can almost see the same arms wrapped around you, same bare torso pressed against your bare back—
“did a kid beat you up this much?” you ask to rid yourself of those thoughts. and oh, how you prayed he couldn’t hear the small tremors in your voice.
his head snaps around, and he throws a small glare at you. “i’ll have you know, i wasn’t beaten up by a kid.”
“i don’t know who you’re fooling,” you say. “the nymphs, satyrs, and chiron are the only things in camp older than us.”
percy shuts his mouth after, giving you the perfect opportunity to sew the wound closed.
you trace a line around the wound's perimeter.
“i’ll sew around here,” you say. at the look on percy’s face, you reassure him: “there’ll be nectar in the thread, don’t worry. it won’t hurt.”
after you’d sewn the wound closed, you dab over it with nectar for good measure.
“alright, that’s all you’ll need from me.” you hand him a spare camp shirt that—you assume—is his size. “the wound’s all closed up, and i made sure the thread’s fortified enough that the wound won’t open with strenuous activity. you can continue training; just don’t let any kids cut you up that bad, yeah?”
you turn your back to him. you dispose of the antiseptic and nectar cotton balls you used to clean his wound, wrap the needle in tissue and throw it, shelve the bottle of nectar and antiseptic, then tidy up your area.
when you turn back, percy jackson is still sitting on the infirmary bed.
he didn’t even put the shirt on.
“why aren’t you leaving—?”
“you want me,” he says, blunt as the blade that slashed through his—defined, toned, muscled—chest.
“what?”
shit.
your heart is beating rapidly in your chest, loud enough that you can hear it roaring in your ears.
“i do not,” you state, crossing your arms over your chest in an attempt to lower your heart rate. it doesn't slow.
“do too,” he replies. “weren't you checking me out a while ago?”
this was new.
“i was assessing you. what’s gotten into you?”
“was it the blood, doc?” he smirks. he didn’t even answer your question. “you're into that?”
you hate how much he sounds like he’s mocking you.
and you hate how much he's right.
“no. i’m not. i treat a lot of bloody demigods. every day of the week. there's no way i get aroused by blood.”
i’m into how the blood looks on you, the traitorous (and truthful) voice in your head says.
then, you huff. “you lost a lot of blood back there,” you say. “you're delirious, jackson. delusional, even.”
“y’sure, doc?” and you can see the shadow of a smile that stretches across his face when he says, “why don't we test that theory out, huh?”
suddenly, your lower back meets the wooden table. in one long stride, percy had crossed the distance between the two of you.
there’s a soft smack as his hands land on the table, just right beside you, caging you in between his arms. he leans in enough that the low timbre of his voice reverberates through your bones and stirs the butterflies lying low.
“you're soaked, pretty girl.”
fuck. of course the son of the water god would know that.
and, from the look on his face, the same son of the water god knew that you’d never be able to deny it.
percy was hot—objectively, truthfully speaking. you knew this. especially now that you’ve seen his fine, god-esque figure accentuated by the sheen of blood. you doubt it was even the blood. it was just him.
you won't deny, too, what you’ve been feeling—the warmth in your entire body and the unmistakable dampness in your panties—the moment he entered the infirmary.
was it so wrong to give in to what you want, just this once?
when you look back up at him, his sea green eyes are boring into your very soul.
“have you made up your mind yet, doc?” he asks.
and fuck it, you have.
you lean in first, smashing your lips against his.
and, to your surprise, percy kisses you back with as much vigor—if not more.
the two of you waste no time in being careful. percy shoves his tongue in your mouth, you run your hands to his hair, tugging at the strands that get caught between your fingers.
you only register hands on you, then the loss of ground, before you’re lifted onto the wooden table.
he leans in, his kisses sloppy, desperate, and downright greedy as he sucks on your bottom lip.
he leaves your lips tingling for more as he kisses down, down, down, right at your carotid. he licks that very point, then hollows his cheeks and sucks.
you let out a sound. it teeters embarrassingly on the edge of a yelp and a drawn-out groan.
immediately, your hand flies to your mouth.
“don't do that, pretty girl,” he says, peeling your hands away from your mouth. he intertwines them, then presses another kiss there, mumbling against the soft skin: “wanna hear everything.”
“but they'll hear us, jackson,” you whisper.
the both of you are silent for a moment, until:
“wanna come over to mine?” he asks. “cabin’s soundproof. no one’s gonna hear a thing.”
the moments to cabin three pass in the blink of an eye.
when you cross the threshold of the seasalt-scented cabin, none of you linger.
with a sudden bout of newfound confidence, you pull him in by the hand, the kiss open-mouthed, wet—leagues away from your initial composure at the infirmary. there’s none now; you think you’ve lost it all.
percy leads you to the bed. he makes himself comfortable, and the hand entwined with yours pulls you onto his lap.
his one hand is everywhere. it cradles your face and deepens the kiss, it squeezes and grips at your waist, and, the next moment, latches on to it like a vice and pulls you impossibly closer to him.
your limbs are wrapped perfectly around him. one hand clings to his shoulders, locking him in place and feeling every oscillating wave of his muscles at every small movement. the other hand stays locked in his.
your pussy’s weeping, downright throbbing at the taste of his tongue in your mouth. you couldn't help but think about how it’d feel inside of you—
ankles lock right behind him, trying to bring yourself even closer and closer to where you needed him most. your drenched panties catch on to the tent at the front of his shorts, and you have to hold back a sob.
you think, in this moment, you’ve finally made up your mind.
“i want you,” you murmur. “so bad.”
percy lets out a small, mirthful chuckle. “can feel you getting wetter over me, doc. ‘s like a damn waterpark.”
before you can retort, percy’s hands grip your hips—not rough, not tight, but as if asking for permission—and only slightly lift. your fingers hook under the garter of your waistband and, with his help, you shimmy out of your shorts.
percy doesn't have to try, and yet, every move of his arm is showing off and flexing his biceps for you to ogle at.
and, as the next piece of fabric comes down, he lets out a guttural groan. both of you watch—percy, transfixed—as a few stringy wads of your slick stick to the front of your panties.
oh, you really were so wet.
percy continues to stare, a small smile stretching across his face and into a smirk.
“don't–don't get cocky about it.” your legs inch closer together in an attempt to block out the pure intensity of his stare, when—
“dont.”
his middle and ring finger swipe a long, languid stripe up your pussy lips, pooling your slick onto his digits.
your mouth drops into a little “oh!” as he starts to sink his middle finger into your pussy. and as if in a daze, he’s letting the second of his long fingers in.
“jackson—you… fuck!” you're trying not to wail, to keep your voice low so other campers can't hear you—but, fuck, do percy’s fingers feel good.
percy’s brows furrow and crease in the middle just as he watches your cunt swallow up his fingers. he moves them slowly, just a small wriggle side to side, before he feels the slight resistance—“fuck,” he whispers against your neck (he’s never felt so parched). “so tight around me, pretty girl,”
you whine when he pulls his fingers out. sheeny slick coats them, a line of it keeping you two connected still.
you miss the feel of percy in you for a few seconds, before he’s pushing his fingers back in, out, in. they were so vicious, so greedy, taking up all the space and swabbing at you. in, then out, then in.
“don't stop, please.”
“why would i?” he murmurs. his eyes aren't on you at all, but down, down, down.
he scissoring your entrance wide open with his roving fingertips to the point where you can feel his fingerprints against your soft insides. you shiver at the way he sinks them in again with a sluurp.
percy leans in a bit more, pressing a kiss to your carotid, then clavicle.
in that same moment, his wrist has found a newfound angle, one that somehow pushes his two fingers deeper in. hitting nearly the back of your pussy, pushing back and forth against your gooey walls.
when you feel it, your eyes widen.
he smiles. “found it.”
he hooks at your most sensitive gummy bundle of nerves. curves his fingers just right.
your loose limbs start shaking at percy’s relentless back and forth with your g-spot– “jackson—think ‘m gonna—”
lewd squelches and your mewls of his name ring in the heady room as he speeds up his ministrations. A ruthless pace that has tears stinging your eyes, hitting that spot over and over and—
white-hot pleasure between your eyes. tension curling your toes.
“cum f’me, pretty girl,” he rasps out. he squeezes in a third finger inside your tight cunt—
and you're seeing stars.
he’s fucking you through your high, each thump of his fingertips against your g-spot and each glide of his long fingertips easing you down.
again, and again, and again.
right as the high bates, you feel an emptiness when percy’s fingers have pulled out of your weeping hole.
you pull him in by the shoulders, kissing him just to get a taste of his lips and tongue.
“give me more, jackson,” you mumble against his lips.
“what?”
“you know what i mean,” you tell him. your hands snake to his belt loops, pawing at them in delirious desperation. “want more of you.”
percy groans.
his feet land on the ground beside the bed. metal clinks against the floor. clothes ruffle as they're being discarded.
“been wanting this for so long, pretty girl–” he lugs his boxers down, along with his bottoms, “felt like i was dying.”
his cock springs free and slaps against his abdomen. he was big—so mouthwateringly big; flushed your favorite shade of pink at his leaking tip, pulsing veins glistening in the dim light—every part of him was so unfairly pretty.
and, well, you just couldn't resist a taste.
beding down in one fluid motion, you press a kiss to his weeping tip, drag your tongue all the way down the vein under his shaft, and his hand immediately flies to your hair.
“shit— hah- you don't have to—”
“shut up, jackson.”
and with that, you’re shoving as much of his throbbing erection down your throat. there’s a slightly salty taste on your tongue as you swipe at the droplets of precum pooling on his tip.
“shit, oh—yes, yes, yes–.” percy lets out a guttural moan. Fingers thread through your hair as he uses it as leverage to fuck himself slowly, deeper and deeper into your heavenly mouth, his hips stuttering and jerking with pleasure.
it was dizzying, the way he was pulsing in your throat, his scent filling your senses. beginning to move up and down in hasty, desperate bobs of your head. pulling such lewd gasps and moans from his lips.
his dick twitches in your mouth and your cunt clenches. you brace yourself, ready for his orgasm, when he stops.
and just pulls his cock out.
there’s a loud, lewd pop! that accompanies it that makes his dick twitch and your pussy ache. you’re about to retort, mouth opening to ask him why— but he beats you to it.
“don’t wanna cum yet,” he tells you. he grabs his cock, tugging it ever so slightly, when he says, “lean back for me, pretty girl.”
and that you don’t argue with.
your legs are spread in front of him, and the look on his sea-green eyes is so carnal, so hungry that you motion to close yourself up. he places your legs above his shoulders, eyes stil trained on your soaked core.
he drags his reddened tip right through your swollen folds, catching maddeningly on your clit, teasingly pooling your slick on his leaking head. too slow.
you wiggle your hips just so that the tip just slides inside your hole.
he curses above you, and you feel small spurts of precum lining your walls.
with newfound vigor, percy pushes his hips forward, groaning out your name.
you could almost sob at the stretch as he presses in inch by inch.
his cock was long enough that it kissed your cervix, and that the mushroom tip hooked just right against your g-spot. it didn't lack girth, too—it was thick enough that you could feel the veins pressing against your walls.
deliciously painful, borderline addicting, and something you didn’t know you’d been craving until today.
and it’s almost like percy felt the same, cock hot and throbbing agonizingly inside of you, almost like his second heartbeat.
he buries himself to the hilt and stays. he bows his body down until his damp forehead meets yours.
“greedy girl,” he says. “so tight. gripping—hah–gripping me like a damn vice.”
he pulls himself out fully, just ‘til his tip is kissing your sloppy hole. you whine at the loss of contact, only for him to ram his cock all the way back inside your warmth.
skin on skin, skin on skin. he starts fucking into you, the sheer tightness of your pussy sucking him in so greedily, like she never wanted him to part.
“yes, yes—oh—just like that,” you moan out.
“all–all of it‘s ngh—yours, my girl. yours,” percy says, his baritone voice now raspier above the sloppy squelches that immediately start pouring out of your pussy.
slick gushes out of your cunt with every in and out, dripping down his length and pooling around his balls. they sting against your ass with every thrust in.
“percy—fuck,”
and you feel percy freeze. the loss of movement makes you cry out.
“why—?”
“say it again.”
“what? noo, just come on and fuck me—”
he thrusts once, then stills. “c’mon, my girl, please? lemme hear it one more time.”
oh.
“mmfh—ah—okay, okay.” and one more thrust, harder this time. “oh—! percy, percy, percy! fuuck—”
he keeps the pace constant, rough, kissing your cervix with every in and out of his cock.
“that’s so right, baby.” he presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulders. “sounds—hah—sounds nice, right? better than jus’ jackson?”
you lean away from the bed, hand gripping onto percy’s shoulder for support as you grab his face and kiss him.
he continues thrusting his cock in and out of your poor walls, a sheeny white ring of fluid gathering around his base.
you feel him so deep, he’s pushing your eyes to roll allll the way to the back of your head with the crown of his fat tip.
it was intoxicating, inebriating—from the feeling of his cock throbbing inside you, fucking into you, his lips kissing ever surface he can reach, his teeth biting and marking what’s his.
“m’ so close, percy,” you sob.
percy’s large hand trails down where your bodies meet to draw frenzied circles on your puffy clit. “cum with me—please, baby.”
“inside,” you gasp out. “want you inside.”
and this orgasm seems to be stronger than last time, lightning hot pleasure zapping through your body faster. sobs escape your mouth. your back arches so much you fear for your spine. your body flinches every time he brushes against your clit.
percy’s high comes right alongside yours, and he’s shooting thick, hot, strings of cum, painting your walls white with a low groan of your name. you feel it dripping out of your cunt and into the sheets under you before it's being fucked back in.
when your highs bate, you flop unceremoniously on percy’s bed.
he lets out a small chuckle, before kissing your forehead. “i’ll be right back, okay?”
you watch as his figure retreats to his closet and comes back with an armful of clothes.
the towel in his hands is warm as he cleans going down, passing your stomach, before finally wiping down your inner thighs. he slips his boxers on you, then a shirt.
when he finishes, he collapses right beside you. he pulls you closer, settling you right over his heart, draping an arm over your back.
for a moment, both of you just stare.
“you were amazing, percy,” you say. “i… i liked it. a lot. i'm glad it was you.”
percy presses a soft, chaste kiss to your lips. “i've liked you for so long. still can't believe i managed to kiss you, let alone…”
you let out a small laugh and snuggle closer.
tuesdays were the worst days of the week, you think.
but maybe, just maybe—you brush a stray lock of percy’s hair behind his ears—tuesdays had a little bit of merit to them.
( . . . )
“told you you wanted me”
you grumble against his chest. “shut up.”
he only presses you closer to him. “i don’t know who you’re fooling, baby. i saw you skip that pitcher of water entirely.”
your eyes widen and snap up to meet his. then, feigned nonchalance. “i didn’t need it.”
“i’d have healed faster with it.” then, he grins down at you, canines and eye crinkles and all. “it’s okay, baby, i’d do the same so i could get in the pants of my hot, muscular, super handsome—”
you smush a pillow over his face.
“you wanted me first,” you protest. “you probably asked a bunch of kids to cut you up so you had an excuse to come see me.”
percy’s lack of retort—and movement—makes you sit up.
“oh my gods.”
“listen—”
“there is no way.”
he groans, burying his face deep into your hair. "you're never gonna let me live this down, are you?"
you only grin in reply, canines and eye crinkles and all. "never."
Summary: Mattheo Riddle has never confessed to anyone, which is why his first attempt went so badly
credits to @/saradika-graphics for the divider!
Mattheo Riddle wasn’t exactly known for his considerate nature. In fact, he was notoriously lacking in it.
He was well aware that nothing at Hogwarts stayed a secret—honestly, he was part of the reason why.
In second year, the moment he caught wind of Lorenzo’s crush on that Ravenclaw, he practically sang it up and down every corridor, playing matchmaker with the subtlety of a drunken Hippogriff.
In fourth year, when Draco admitted—in passing—that Granger was “sort of hot in a terrifying way,” Mattheo nearly hexed him into the next era. Still, he whistled and hummed the Wedding March every time they passed each other, just to make Draco suffer.
And just last year, he’d personally tortured Theo over his crush on that Hufflepuff—publicly, relentlessly—until she finally caved and started dating him.
So yeah. Now that he had a crush, there was no way in hell he was letting anyone find out. Especially not Theo.
Because if there was one thing Mattheo had earned in life, it was karma. And this? This would be brutal.
Well… that.
And—
“Fratellone~” (big brother~)
Mattheo’s entire nervous system short-circuited.
Your voice floated into the common room like smoke and sugar, playful and sweet—and there you were, head poking in, eyes wide and sparkly, looking right at Theo.
He sat lazily on the sofa with Mattheo beside him, but Mattheo would’ve been lying if he said the sight of your big, pleading doe eyes didn’t make him swoon just a little.
He also tried not to react to the way you were fluttering your lashes like you were auditioning for a Veela commercial.
Theo chuckled, rolling his eyes, "What do you want?"
"Will you promise to say yes first?" You asked sweetly, lips pursed in a pout, rocking on your heels with your eyes wide like a tragic fairytale character.
Theo scowled at you—but there was no real malice in it, "Like hell. What do you want?"
"Some allowance." You replied, tilting your head just slightly—and Merlin help him, Mattheo almost pulled out his wallet for you.
Theo, however, was unmoved. He scoffed, "Yeah, right. What happened to all your allowance? I’m not giving you a single knut."
You didn’t flinch. Instead, you flopped right between the two of them, your shoulder brushing Mattheo’s as your scent flooded his brain.
He stared straight ahead.
He did not inhale.
He definitely did not imagine himself burying his nose into the crook of your neck and taking in your scent.
"Theoooo," You whined, stretching his name like syrup, "I want to go to Hogsmeade this weekend with my friends. Pleeeease?"
He narrowed his eyes, grimacing again, and you let out another pitiful whine.
A beat passed before he finally sighed, "Fine. Go get my wallet from my dorm."
You grinned, victorious, as you pulled the wallet straight out of your robe pocket.
Theo let out a scoff of disbelief, "Unbelievable."
You merely gave him a smile.
"You know," He grumbled as you pocketed the money, "when I ran out of allowance, I didn’t have anyone to scam with big eyes and fake innocence. You’re lucky you’ve got such a good big brother."
You huffed, smug, "That’s your job as my big brother. If you wanted the special treatment, you should’ve been born second."
Mattheo very calmly decided that if Theo ever found out about the state of his crush, he would simply have to fake his own death and transfer to Durmstrang under a new identity.
After a couple weeks of hopeless, spiraling, late-night-scribbling-his-name-next-to-yours-on-scrap-parchment kind of pining, Mattheo had finally made up his mind.
He was going to tell you.
Actually confess. Like a proper idiot in love.
It was stupid, really—how nervous he felt. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure what was worse: the actual feelings, or the fact that he was handling them like a fourth year with his first crush.
Honestly, he felt like he was in over his head—and Mattheo Riddle never felt that way. His comfort zone was massive. He wasn’t the type to second-guess himself, or get shy, or blush when someone looked at him a second too long. If anything, he was usually the one making other people uncomfortable with how confident and shameless he was.
He had always been the type to take charge of any situation. If he wanted something, he said so. Gave the time and place. No hesitation. No second-guessing. No vulnerability.
But with you?
With you, it was different.
You made him feel like the floor might disappear from under him at any second. Like rejection from you wouldn’t just sting—it would wreck him.
And maybe that was dramatic, maybe even pathetic, but he’d take pathetic over regret any day. At least if he confessed, he could say he’d tried. Even if it went horribly. Even if you laughed in his face.
(Which he was only mildly worried about. Okay, more than mildly. He’d had an actual dream where that happened. Twice.)
Still, he figured he had to try. At least this way, if it all fell apart, he’d know he hadn’t kept his mouth shut like a coward. And, of course, he owed Theo the basic respect of asking you out properly.
So he waited. Bided his time.
And when he saw you one night alone in the library—half-asleep over your Charms essay, ink smudged across your fingers—he figured this was it.
Game time.
You looked up at the sound of his footsteps, eyebrows lifting in surprise.
“Mattheo Riddle?” You teased, “In the library? Are you lost?”
He tried to fire something back. Something snarky or clever or Mattheo-ish.
Instead, all he managed was a breathless smile.
Your teasing faded instantly. You sat up straighter, “Are you okay?”
He exhaled through his nose, nodded once, “Yeah. I just… I need to tell you something.”
Your expression softened, open and patient, “Okay. Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
He blinked. Swallowed.
Then immediately began spiraling.
“It’s just that—I think you’re a—no, wait. That’s not how I wanted to start. I’ve been feeling like this for a couple months—shit, no, that sounds stalkerish—”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing in concern. Mattheo Riddle, Hogwarts’ most sarcastic menace, was stammering like a first year. You’d never seen him like this.
“Mattheo?” You asked gently, “Just say it. I promise I won’t judge you.”
He ran a hand through his curls, letting out a breath.
“It’s not you judging me that I’m afraid of,” He muttered, “It’s just… I’ve never had these feelings before. Not like this. And it’s been driving me insane, not saying anything. I’ve wanted to for weeks. But there’s Theo—you know he’s my best mate—and I didn’t want to make things weird or screw it all up. But honestly, I don’t think I care anymore. Not when it feels like this.”
He looked up at you finally, eyes wide and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen on him before.
You looked upset. Maybe even heartbroken. Mattheo felt his stomach drop.
A beat passed.
Then you smiled. Slowly. Brightly.
“I think I understand what you’re saying, Mattheo.”
His heart nearly stopped, “Y-You do?”
You nodded eagerly, eyes shining, “Yeah. And—wow. I mean—this is amazing news.”
A smile bloomed on his face, stunned and almost disbelieving, “Wait. Really? You think so?”
“Of course I do!” You laughed, standing to wrap your arms around him in a tight hug, “This is great. I’m so happy for you.”
He froze for a second, then melted into it, arms winding around you with relief pouring through his chest. He tucked his face into your hair and breathed in the scent of your shampoo.
Finally.
He’d done it. He’d told you. And you—Merlin, you felt the same. You really—
You pulled back, still smiling, and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. His brain short-circuited.
“Listen, I should get to bed,” You said, gathering your books in your arms with a small smile, “But we’ll talk more tomorrow, okay?”
Mattheo nodded, eyes wide and glassy, like he wasn’t entirely sure what dimension he was in, “Y-Yeah. Okay.”
You gave him a wink—light, teasing, completely unaware of the emotional earthquake you’d just caused—and turned, heading down the corridor toward the dorms. Your footsteps echoed gently, fading into the stillness of the night.
The second you turned the corner and were safely out of sight, you bolted into the nearest empty hallway, nearly tripping over your own feet as you pressed your back to the wall, books clutched to your chest, heart pounding.
Your thoughts were a blur.
Mattheo Riddle.
The guy you'd been lowkey—okay, not so lowkey—crushing on for weeks. The one who made your stomach flip every time he so much as looked at you. The same boy who’d just opened up to you with flushed cheeks and fumbled words and a nervousness you never thought you’d see on him.
You blinked rapidly, breath caught in your throat, replaying the entire conversation in our head.
You groaned, sliding down the wall until you were sitting on the cold stone floor, completely humiliated.
“I can’t believe this,” You whispered, “I was this close to asking him to Hogsmeade.”
The next morning was a blur.
You hadn’t slept.
How could you, after what happened in the library? After Mattheo Riddle—a boy you’d been quietly losing your mind over for weeks—had looked you in the eye and told you, with a trembling voice, and broke your heart.
You were the main character in an absolute tragedy.
You spent all of night thinking it through, picturing the next couple years in your future. You'd undoubtedly be around Mattheo for a lot of those years because of his closeness to Theo. Could you really survive that?
I mean, you had to, didn't you?
Just as the morning rays of sunshine began to flitter through your curtains you had attempted to strengthen your already flimsy resolve.
You were happy.
Really.
You were.
Fucking hell.
So when Mattheo found you in the Great Hall that morning and slid into the seat beside you with the most relaxed, pleased-with-himself smile you’d ever seen on his face, your heart sank.
“Morning,” He said, nudging you playfully, “Sleep okay?”
You blinked, “Um. Yeah. You?”
“Best night of my life.” He said, completely sincere.
You stared at him.
God, he must really be happy.
You cleared your throat and focused very, very hard on your scrambled eggs.
Mattheo, meanwhile, was thriving. You were a little quiet, sure, but he figured that was just nerves. Shyness. Maybe you were still processing the fact that he liked you. Really liked you. That he’d finally said it out loud.
He nudged you again, dropping his voice slightly.
“So, uh… when do you think we should tell Theo?”
Your soul left your body.
Tell Theo.
Tell Theo?!
He wanted you to witness him breaking your heart in person?!
You slowly lowered your fork, “You want me to be there when you... tell him?”
Mattheo’s smile widened like your reaction was exactly what he was hoping for, “Yeah, I mean, obviously he’s gonna be weird about it at first—but he’ll come around.”
You stared at him, a strange buzzing in your ears, “Right. Um. I don’t think I should be there for that.”
His brows lifted, “Oh?”
“I just… I think it’s something you should do on your own. You know? One-on-one. No distractions.”
Mattheo nodded slowly, lips pressed together in thought, “Yeah. I get that. ”
“I just don’t think my presence would help.”
He chuckled softly, “You’re seriously adorable when you’re anxious.”
You blinked.
Mattheo tilted his head, confused for a split second… then smiled.
“Alright,” He said, nodding seriously, “I’ll talk to him later.”
You nodded back, forcing a smile, while internally screaming into the void.
There was a sharp knock on the door to your dorm room.
You sat up in bed, startled, textbook sliding from your lap. Your roommates all told you they were staying out late to finish their joined project in the library. You had been expecting to have the dorm empty for at least another hour.
“Who the hell—?”
The door creaked open, and Mattheo slipped inside, curls a little messy, eyes shadowed and stormy, shoulders slumped.
He gave you a little smile when he entered though it did little to betray his crestfallen expression as he trudged over to your spot on the bed before he threw himself on the mattress beside you. His arms immediately went around your waist in a hug as he hid his face into the side of your thigh.
Your heart jumped into your throat.
“Mattheo?” You whispered, brushing his curls away from his eyes, “What—what are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
He looked up at you like he wasn’t sure whether to speak or just collapse into your lap and stay there forever. A part of him didn’t want to say anything. He knew how much you adored your older brother. If you found out Theo wasn’t supportive of your relationship, it would wreck you.
But the way you were looking at him, gentle and concerned and so you, cracked him wide open.
“I told him.”
You blinked, “You told Theo?”
He nodded slowly. There was something behind his eyes—hurt, confusion, frustration. And something else too. Shame.
“How did he take it?” You asked, already knowing the answer.
Mattheo let out a bitter breath and ran a hand down his face, “Not well. He looked at me like I’d lost my fucking mind. Told me I was sick. Said I needed to back off before things got weird.”
Your chest caved in. Horror filling every pore and vein, inching itself into your bones. Yesterday, you had kind of hoped for this. But today? You were utterly mortified by your brother's actions.
“He said that to you?”
Mattheo sighed, closing his eyes and just enjoying the way you carded through his hair, “Yeah. I mean, I guess I get it. I didn’t exactly ask for permission before anything happened—”
“Permission?” You echoed, getting increasingly angry.
He kept talking, “I just thought he’d at least be annoyed, you know? Or at least not act like I committed a sin. I mean, I don't really give a shit about what he thinks but he's my best mate.”
You stood, furious, “I can’t believe him. That’s so unfair.”
Mattheo looked up, slightly startled.
You were pacing now, barefoot, fury radiating off you like heat.
“I mean, what century are we living in? If you like someone, you like someone. He doesn’t get to make you feel wrong for that.”
Mattheo blinked, “Wait—what?”
“I’m gonna go yell at him,” You snapped, already marching toward the door, “He doesn’t get to treat you like that. He should be grateful you were honest. Gods, I’m so mad right now—”
“Wait, (Y/N), wait—” Mattheo followed, hands raised like he was trying to calm a charging dragon, “Sweetheart, it’s really not that big a deal. He’ll cool off, and I’ll talk to him again—”
“That’s not good enough!” You snapped, throwing open the door, “God, if Mama saw what a heartless bastard he turned into—ugh! I’m gonna hex his balls off!”
You stormed out, slamming the door behind you so hard it rattled on its hinges.
Mattheo stood in the silence that followed, staring at the now-closed door, stunned.
A long pause.
Then, very quietly:
“…I fear for my safety when we have our first fight.”
You stormed through the Slytherin common room like a woman possessed, your footsteps echoing furiously through the stone corridors.
People scattered. Literally scattered.
You weren’t sure where Theo was, but your rage must’ve acted as some kind of tracking charm, because the moment you shoved open the boys’ dorm door, there he was—lounging at his desk, reading some smug little book with his legs kicked up like he owned the castle.
“Theodore. Fucking. Nott.”
Theo looked up, startled—just in time for you to march over and yank him up by the ear.
“OW—WHAT THE BLOODY HELL—!”
“Don’t ‘what the bloody hell’ me, you absolute tosser,” You snapped, dragging him upright like a furious mother catching her child vandalizing a sacred artifact, “Mattheo tells you how he feels—he opens up to you—and you call him sick?! Are you completely deranged?!”
Theo flailed dramatically, “Let go of my ear! Have you lost your mind?!”
“Have you?! You’re supposed to be his best friend! Do you have any idea how hard that must’ve been for him?! He came to you vulnerable—and you rejected him like he was diseased!”
Theo stopped struggling. His face twisted in confusion.
“Okay, what the actual hell are you talking about?!”
You jabbed a finger into his chest with your free hand, “Don’t play dumb. Mattheo told me he has feelings for someone, and yesterday he went to confess. Then he shows up to my dorm crushed because you turned him away like he didn't mean anything to you!"
There was a heavy pause.
Theo blinked.
“…He told you he had feelings for someone?”
“Yes!” You snapped.
“And you thought he meant…” Theo trailed off, narrowing his eyes.
You squinted right back, “…You?”
Theo stared at you. You stared at him.
Then he grabbed your ear.
“OW—HEY—WHAT THE HELL—!”
“You utter moron!” He hissed, twisting slightly, “You thought Mattheo was confessing to me?!”
“I WAS TRYING TO BE SUPPORTIVE!”
“SUPPORTIVE?! OF ME DATING MATTHEO?! ARE YOU HIGH?!”
“STOP TWISTING, YOU GOBLIN!”
You both stood there like absolute lunatics, yanking on each other’s ears, realization dawning in slow-motion horror.
And then—
The dorm door burst open. And Mattheo came in.
His eyes landed on Theo gripping your ear.
His entire face shifted.
“Oi! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Mattheo barked, “I don’t care if she’s your sister, Nott—get your hands off my girlfriend!”
You froze.
Mattheo took a step forward, jaw clenched, “Seriously. Let go.”
You blinked, “…Girlfriend?”
Silence.
A very heavy silence.
Mattheo turned to you, suddenly uncertain, “Yeah? I mean—you don’t mind, do you?”
You gawked at him, “Wait, hold on. I must’ve missed a few chapters—since when am I your girlfriend?”
Mattheo’s brows drew together, “Well… we didn’t officially say anything, but I thought… I mean, yesterday—”
“Yesterday?!”
“Yeah! You said it was amazing news. I thought that meant you liked the idea!”
“I did think it was a good idea! I mean—at the time I did! But then today happened—”
Mattheo stiffened, voice dropping, “So you don’t want to date me because Theo doesn’t like it?”
You stared at him, completely flabbergasted, “Mattheo… aren’t you gay?”
Theo, who had been suspiciously quiet up until this point, snorted.
Then he wheeze-laughed.
Then he bent over, dying, gasping for air like the world’s most dramatic mime.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” He cackled, “You two deserve each other. You're both idiots. I can't breathe.”
Mattheo’s face went red, “What?! What on earth gave you that impression?!”
“You said it yourself!” You shouted defensively, “You went on and on about your feelings—how hard it was to express, how you were scared, how it could ruin your friendship—with Theo! I thought you were coming out and telling me you were in love with him!”
Mattheo looked absolutely offended, “YES—because I didn’t know how to tell my best friend that I was in love with his baby sister!”
You blinked, “You never said my name! Not ONCE in that entire meltdown did the words ‘(Y/N), I like you’ come out of your mouth!”
“I thought it was implied! You kissed me on the cheek!”
“I’M ITALIAN, WE KISS EVERYBODY!”
Mattheo cleared his throat, “Okay. Um… let me try this again.”
You looked up at him, still a little dazed, “Please do.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking far too nervous for someone who once set a broom closet on fire in third year because, in his words, it was “for shits and giggles"
“I like you,” He said, voice low but steady, “You, Y/N Nott. Not your brother—despite his sparkling personality.”
From the bed, Theo flipped him off, “I hope you choke.”
Mattheo took a step closer, his tone softening as his eyes searched yours, “I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks. But I didn’t want to ruin things with Theo, and then I panicked—and started rambling—and then you kissed me and walked off, and I thought that meant yes. So I spent the last twenty-four hours floating around like a smug idiot thinking I had the girl of my dreams.”
You flushed, smiling despite yourself.
“I’m not gay,” Mattheo added quickly, glancing sideways at Theo, “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, obviously. I just—look, I probably shouldn’t say anything else. Every time I open my mouth, you come up with a new wild theory and I nearly get accused of seducing your brother.”
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh.
Mattheo stepped closer again, “So now that we’ve established I’m not secretly in love with Theo… would you want to be my girlfriend?"
He looked so earnest. Like he’d hand you his heart and a backup heart just in case something happened to the first one.
Your own heart skipped. “I’d love to,” You said softly. Then, with a sly smile, “I’d kiss you right now if my brother weren’t staring.”
“And for that, I’m eternally grateful,” Theo deadpanned, still sprawled on his bed, “Also grateful that as of today, you are officially his problem. You want money? You hit up your boyfriend. You set something on fire? Talk to your boyfriend. I am washing my hands clean of you.”
He dramatically mimed wiping his hands in the air.
He then added, “To think I was worried your pathetic, lovestruck, gay ass was going to break my baby sister’s heart.”
Mattheo groaned, “Not gay. Just want to emphasize again how not gay I am. Not that there’s anything wrong with it! Just—Merlin’s beard—I’m shutting up now.”
Theo smirked, “Smart move.”
Mattheo sighed and looked back at you, “...Still want to kiss me?”
You grinned, “I wouldn't be opposed.”
Theo froze, "Wait a second."
“Don’t wait up.” Mattheo said smugly to his roommate, taking your hand.
“Mattheo I swear to God—”
You pulled him toward the door, laughing, while Theo yelled curses behind the two of you.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
Summary: He smells like trouble — and you’re violently allergic.
A/N: Just a cute lil drabble for us girlies with rhinitis lmfao
credits to @saradika-graphics for the divider!
Your friends and family could definitely attest to the fact that you weren’t a morning person. They knew just how much effort it took for you to drag yourself out of your comfortable bed and get ready for a day of classes.
In fact, you loved sleep so much that you often skipped breakfast just to stay in bed a little longer. But on days like today, even that luxury had to be sacrificed. You had a double Potions lesson on these unfortunate mornings, and you knew that if Snape heard your stomach growl in the middle of class, he’d turn his greasy gaze on you in an instant. You didn’t need that kind of humiliation before 8 a.m.
So, just for those insipid Thursdays that cursed you with a front-row seat to Snape’s scowl, you forced yourself to have a full breakfast.
You were halfway through your meal when someone slid in beside you, your thigh pressing up against theirs due to the crowded table—but you paid it no mind. You were still drowsily chewing your croissant and washing it down with sips of coffee, half-awake and wholly uninterested in morning socialization.
But as it turned out, you didn’t even need to look up to recognize who had sat beside you. His scent drifted over immediately, invading all your senses.
Smoke. Menthol. Grass.
The offensive combination was a direct attack on your sinuses—an allergy trigger—and you sniffled, trying your hardest to suppress the inevitable.
"Achoo—!"
You barely managed to grab a tissue in time before a sneezing fit hit you, harsh and rapid, making your head pound and clogging your ears. It was like a full-body betrayal.
Finally, you lifted your head, eyes watery, and glared at Mattheo, who was watching your misery with far too much amusement.
“It’s six o’clock in the bloody morning. Why do you already smell like an ashtray?”
He chuckled, low and raspy—his signature brand of self-destruction. The sound made your stomach flip unpleasantly, “How else am I meant to survive double Potions this early?”
“Salazar, I’m about to sneeze up my lungs. You need to get away from me.” You groaned, digging through your bag with one hand while clutching a tissue to your nose with the other. You finally found your allergy potion, added a few drops to your water, and knocked it back like a shot. The relief was still a few minutes away, but your sinuses were already starting to throb.
“Aw, don’t be like that, darling.” Mattheo teased, leaning in closer with that infuriating smirk.
You had no idea how it was physically possible to trigger another sneezing fit when you couldn’t smell a damn thing—but somehow, he managed.
He winced this time, genuinely, and passed you another tissue as your nose turned an alarming shade of red and your chest began to burn from the exertion.
"You think this is funny?" You rasped, your voice nasally and sharp as you blew your nose yet again. Your eyes were watery and puffy now, and your headache was blooming behind them like an angry sun.
He shrugged and leaned in just a little closer, the glint of mischief in his eyes glimmering brighter when you instinctively leaned away to escape his scent, “You’re cute when you’re dying.”
You gave him a deadpan stare, unimpressed, “You think this is flirting?”
“Is it not working?”
You sneezed again in response, grabbing another tissue as your shoulders sagged from the force of it, “I hate you.”
Mattheo chuckled, clearly not offended in the slightest, “I’m growing on you.”
“Like mold.” you muttered, blowing your nose again.
The dungeons were even colder than usual.
You sat stiffly at your table, arms folded and a tissue still clutched in your sleeve just in case, glaring daggers at Mattheo, who had somehow managed to plant himself at the same workstation as you—again. He was leaning back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction, while you were trying to remember if it was possible to drown someone in a cauldron without magic.
Snape stood at the front, his voice as dry and lifeless as ever, “Today we will be brewing Amortentia—the most powerful love potion in existence. I’m aware that most of you have heard of it.” His eyes swept the class lazily, lingering on a few particularly chatty Hufflepuffs until they fell silent, “I do not need to warn you not to drink it. If you are foolish enough to do so, I suggest you be prepared to serve detention for the rest of the year.”
That certainly wiped the grins off a few faces.
Snape gestured toward a swirling silver potion that sat in the center of the classroom, steam curling up from its surface like silk threads, “Amortentia has a distinctive smell for each individual. It reflects what attracts you—your deepest desires.”
You already knew what was coming next.
Snape gave an exhausted sigh, “Yes, I will allow you to approach and smell it. No, I will not tolerate dramatics or extended monologues. State three scents. Then return to your seat.”
Of course, the class erupted into excited whispers, and students immediately began lining up like it was a trip to Honeydukes, a buzz of excitement threading through the usual tension. You ended up somewhere near the back of the line, still sniffling lightly but feeling mostly human again.
Mattheo turned toward you with a grin, “Wanna guess what I’ll smell?”
"I couldn't care less." You muttered, rubbing your nose.
One by one, your classmates stepped up and murmured their answers:
“Fresh parchment… ink… cedarwood.”
“Rain on concrete… treacle tart… and, um, lavender?”
When it was Mattheo’s turn, he moved to the front casually, hands in his pockets, and leaned over the potion with a laziness that was either theatrical or just him being annoying. Probably both. You saw his expression shift slightly—his mouth twitching, a flicker of surprise in his eyes—and then he smirked, catching your eye.
“Cinnamon,” He murmured, almost lazily, “Smoke… and something sweet. Like a cherry lip balm.”
You blinked. Your lip balm was cherry. But before you could even begin to convince yourself there was absolutely no way he was talking about you, it was your turn.
You stepped forward cautiously and leaned over the cauldron, letting the shimmering steam curl toward your face.
The scent hit you all at once.
Warm coffee in the morning. The crackling scent of firewood. The sharp sting of winter air. And—
that godawful combination of cigarette smoke, grass, warm leather, and that absolutely striking menthol that jabbed you right in the back of your head.
Your entire body rejected the information at once.
"Achoo—!!"
It was so loud it echoed. Your eyes flew open, already brimming with tears as another round of sneezing overtook you—loud, rapid, unstoppable.
You barely managed to reach for your tissue as your chest tightened painfully, the sneezing fit threatening to overwhelm you.
Snape’s expression didn’t soften, but his voice dropped just enough to be heard only by you, “You are excused. Go to the bathroom and handle this... nuisance.”
You nodded gratefully, gathering your things in a flurry and stumbling out of the dungeon. At this rate, you wouldn’t be surprised if you had to stop by the hospital wing or take a stronger dose of your allergy potion.
Mattheo bloody Riddle.
Well, this was just great.
Later that afternoon, you found a quiet spot just outside the castle, where the sun filtered softly through the leaves and the cool breeze carried scents that—thankfully—didn’t assault your sinuses. You sank down onto the warm stone steps, closing your eyes and taking deep, deliberate breaths, willing your throat and chest to stop burning.
You barely had a moment to relax before you heard a familiar voice—smooth, teasing, and annoyingly persistent.
“Well, well, if it isn’t my biggest admirer.”
You opened your eyes to find Mattheo leaning casually against the wall nearby, arms crossed, a smug grin playing on his lips. His dark eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Don’t let it get to your head, Riddle. I’m literally allergic to you. Now, if you could kindly leave, I just managed to get over the allergic reaction. I don’t need you triggering another one.”
But, of course, he didn’t listen as usual. Instead, he sat down beside you again. But instead of being suffocated by his usual scent, you were welcomed by the smell of fabric softener and soap. You sighed in relief, glad you weren’t about to send yourself into your third allergic fit of the day.
“I showered and put on clean clothes,” He explained, nudging your shoulder with his, “Didn’t want the girl I fancy to have a near-death experience every time I’m around her.”
You breathed in deeply and exhaled, “So, I suppose the cherry lip balm you smelled was mine.”
He nodded. “And your shampoo. And,” he laughed at this, “your allergy potion.”
Your eyes snapped open, “So you’re saying the scent you associate me with is the bloody allergy potion?”
Mattheo smirked, clearly enjoying your shocked expression, “Well, it’s... memorable. Besides, it reminds me that I’m capable of stealing your breath away.”
You raised an eyebrow, “That’s supposed to be romantic?”
Mattheo’s grin widened, eyes sparkling with mischief, “Maybe not traditionally romantic, but definitely effective.”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile, “You’re impossible.”
Mattheo’s smirk softened into something almost sincere as he shifted closer, eyes locked on yours, “So… how about this? Let me take you out sometime. A proper date.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity. Your heart did a little skip.
“Okay,” you said easily, without hesitation.
Mattheo blinked, caught off guard. “Okay? Just like that? No lecture? No conditions?”
You grinned. “Nope. I’m just going to wear the strongest, most suffocating perfume I own and cuddle up to you all day. Then you’ll know what I’ve been living through every time you light a cigarette.”
He laughed, the sound low and warm. “If you’re cuddled up to me, I think I’d die happy—no matter how sneezy and snotty I get.”
You couldn’t help but smile, cheeks warming as you looked at him. “Guess we’ll test that theory soon.”
Mattheo reached out, brushing a stray hair from your face with an unexpected tenderness, “Looking forward to it.”
The sun dipped a little lower, casting a golden glow over the two of you—and suddenly, the world felt a lot brighter.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
summary: when mattheo drinks veritaserum on a bet, he's confident he doesn't have anything to hide... until you show up.
word count: 3.1k
author’s note: gosh i love this messy boy. just a little something sweet + fun!
"I don't know... shouldn't we save it for something... important?"
"Like, what Blaise?" Malfoy responded, exasperated.
"Yeah, got any plans you want to share?" Theo asked.
"All ears, bud" Mattheo joined in.
Blaise threw his hands up. "Fine, fuck it, do what you want with it" he said, resigned, referring to the small vial in Malfoy's hand that had the group's rapt attention as they huddled in the corner of their dormitory like they were first years at a sleepover.
"We should put it in somebody's goblet at dinner."
"We should slip it into Dumbledore's cup, Merlin knows what the geezer would say."
Theo got a wicked look on his face, "I'll give any of you lot 100 galleons to drink it."
Eyes widened around their circle at that.
"You're joking."
"Piss off."
"No, listen to me, we think we know everything about each other, don't we?" Theo continued, letting the sentiment linger "Which means the things we don't know are deep."
He grabbed the vial from Malfoy and dangled it in front of them; Veritaserum, the most powerful truth serum in the wizarding world, even having it in their possession was breaking about 15 Ministry laws.
Members of the group stared shiftily at one another, but Theo found Mattheo's gaze staring boldly at him as he leaned casually against his four-poster, a smirk on his face.
"Make it 200 and you've got yourself a deal" Mattheo grinned.
Snickers of laughter took the group as they punched one another in amusement and excitement.
"Bottoms up" Theo said, tossing the vial at him.
"I've got nothing to hide" Mattheo replied with an air of emblazoned confidence as he deftly popped the cork and threw the liquid back like a shot of firewhiskey before anyone could stop him.
It didn't taste like anything other than water, and for a moment Mattheo thought this was the easiest 200 galleons he'd ever make, but then he felt a sort of bubbling in his chest, like every feeling, every sentence he'd ever held back wanted to burst forth.
"...Well?" asked Malfoy, cautiously, leaning in, "How do you feel?"
"Bloody weird" Mattheo said, looking down at the empty vial in his hand. "And apprehensive, like I definitely don't want you to ask me things." His eyes widened at the words that had come so truthfully and vulnerably out of his mouth before he could stop them, suddenly realizing that he'd made a horrible mistake.
Theo was howling with laughter, leaning in and rubbing his hands together as he got ready to obliterate his best friend for being so cocky; he was going to make every galleon worth it.
"Did you take Blaise's Chudley Cannons scarf last term?" he asked.
"Yup, sold it to a fifth year for a bag of weed— SHIT" Mattheo said quickly, eyes wide before slapping a hand over his mouth.
"Mate, what the fuck?—" Blaise started, but Theo was on a tear.
"—Did you cheat off of Lorenzo's potions exam this week?"
"Of course" Mattheo admitted, the words blasting by his hand, "I've been doing it since fourth year, his handwritings the size of my fist, thanks for that by the way" he said, looking at Enzo.
"Prego, amico" Lorenzo said smiling and shrugging, "happy to help."
"Alright then" Blaise said, the anger and frustration clear in his voice as he eyed Mattheo, "better own up, didn't you slip McLaggen a galleon to let Theo score on him last match?"
"Yeah, fuck, and I'm not sorry about it. I'm tired of hearing Theo piss and complain about losing when he barely shows up to practice and lets the rest of us down."
"OOHHH!" shouted several of the guys.
"Fucking harsh mate!!"
"What the fuck?!?" Theo shouted angrily as he lunged for Mattheo and the others tried to hold him back.
Amidst the shouting and commotion, they didn't hear you knock on the door.
"Guys?" you asked, raising your voice to be heard.
Five heads turned your way as they stopped mid-brawl and began to stand up and right themselves, adjusting their ties and smoothing their robes. For his part, Mattheo's heart nearly shot out of his chest. No, no no no not right now he thought as you pushed your way into their room. On any other occasion he'd be thrilled to see you, but now the bubbling in his chest was reaching its peak at the sight of his deepest, most tightly held secret: you, and every single thing he felt about you.
He took in your amused smile, the light laughter on your lips, the way it made your eyes sparkle and he felt his palms tingle with sweat as he grasped them into fists and swallowed deeply, like he could ingest his own thoughts. You were his best friend, had been since the moment he met you on his first train ride to Hogwarts and he had no illusions about ruining your friendship by trying for anything else; girls like you didn't end up with guys like him.
"Are you alright?" you asked, looking at him strangely before his friends chimed in for him.
"S'fine!"
"Yeah, yeah!"
"Never better!"
"What do you need, love?"
"I am NOT fine!" Mattheo said boldly and rather loudly before he could stop himself and your eyes shot to him with concern.
"Wait, what's wrong Matty?" you asked, using the nickname he only tolerated coming from you.
He pursed his lips tightly and shook his head, averting his eyes to the floor, physically warring with the words that were flooding his subconscious.
What's wrong? A lot of things are wrong, YN. For starters, I love you. I love you so much it physically pains me to spend as much time as we do together and not to grab your hand, to pull you onto my lap, to nuzzle into your neck, to kiss you; I have a list of things I want to do to you every time I see you. Especially in that godsdamn skirt you're wearing. It's my favorite. You should know that. And I wish you would stop wearing it, you have no idea the ways guys look at you. I wish you'd wear it only for me. I wish you'd want me the way I want you, because I want you so badly. I wish you were mine, but I'm scared, no, fucking terrified of the way I feel about you because love is vulnerability and vulnerability is weakness and I can't tell you any of this so please, please don't ask me anything and please, please stop looking at me like that.
"Matty?" you asked again, now thoroughly concerned as your best friend slammed his hands over his ears as you walked towards him.
Theo was burning hot with anger, stewing over what Mattheo had said about him, he wanted to take him down a notch, to embarrass him in return. "Admit it" he interrupted, staring at Mattheo "you have a thing for Pansy and you've tried to make a move on her even though she's with Draco."
You stopped short of approaching Mattheo and stared at Theo.
"What?" you whispered, feeling physically ill, jealous and hurt even though you had no such right.
Mattheo straightened up and glared at Theo.
"What the fuck did you just say?!" Draco said, brushing past you as he came for Mattheo.
"I'm right, aren't I?" Theo pushed further, so smug, so certain he was right.
"No you fucking prat" Mattheo spat at him.
Draco grabbed Mattheo by the front of his robes. "You swear it, you haven't made a move on her?"
"I swear it."
"Not even before we were dating?" Malfoy pressed.
"Not even before you were dating" Mattheo confirmed.
"What the fuck is going on?" you said, exasperated, almost to yourself as you tried to calm down.
"Veritaserum" Blaise said by way of explanation as he leaned in to be heard over the continued shouting of your friends. "Theo bet one of us to drink it and, well..." he said, gesturing his hand by way of explanation at the calamity in front of you.
Malfoy was shouting questions at Mattheo who looked genuinely surprised if not annoyed, and Enzo was looking back and forth at them like it was a tennis match. Theo had a deeply skeptical look on his face as he listened on, "No, you're always weird around Pansy and YN though, I thought..." then, like a lightbulb went off, Theo looked at you, to Mattheo and back again.
"Do you think Pansy's hot?" Malfoy continued.
"Bro, give it up" Blaise said finally, stepping to pull him back, "I think you're in the clear."
"I mean yeah she's hot, but she's not my type. FUCK!" Mattheo replied, rubbing a hand over his face at the admission.
"She's not, but YN is" Theo said finally.
Mattheo bit his bottom lip and stared at the floor, concentrating very hard on the tassels of the rug beneath his feet as he shook his head, a grimace on his face.
Your heart trilled in your chest, which was literally rising and falling in both panic and excitement. Mattheo was shaking his head no, but his whole body was fighting something, there was something he didn't want to say... about you.
"So, she's not your type? Not attractive to you at all?" Theo pushed.
Mattheo's face was turning a dark shade of red as pursed his lips closed and shook his head vehemently, refusing to meet anyone's eyes, his own nearly watering with the exertion of fighting the potion within him.
"Totally platonic? Didn't give a shit when Seamus Finnegan asked her out last term?"
Mattheo glanced at Theo, gathering himself, as he tried desperately to say the only truth he wanted to share. "He's a prick, no secret I didn't think it was a good idea—"
"—You never told me that" you said quietly, confused, and not a little bit angry. "But you avoided me for a few weeks after, I remember..." you said, trailing off as you stepped closer to him, and Mattheo's looked genuinely afraid, outstretching his hands to stop you from coming any closer.
"What don't you want to say?—"
"—I don't want you here right now!" he said loudly.
You physically reared back at the harshness of his words. You caught his eye, trying to communicate the way you often did with one another, to ask things that could only be said without words, but you got nothing in response.
"R-Right" you said, your voice wobbling as you turned to leave, thoroughly embarassed.
And the sound of it nearly broke Mattheo's heart.
"Wait, wait, I didn't meant it like that, I don't want you to be upset, please don't be upset" he said, moving to reach for your hand urgently, the unmasked care and compassion in his voice making you turn and making Draco and Blaise bat at each other's arms in excitement like school girls at the scene unfolding in front of them.
"I don't want you to hear my truth" Mattheo said quietly, and just like that it was just the two of you, you who knew more than any of these idiots, you knew about Blaise's scarf (you had told him not to sell it), about him cheating in potions and paying off McLaggen, but even you didn't know his most deeply held secret and this isn't how he wanted it to come out.
"Please" he begged, in way none of his friends had ever heard him speak before.
"I just... I thought I knew all of your truths?" you said vulnerably, your chin wobbling, saddened at the idea that there was a part of him you didn't know.
"You don't. I'm sorry" he said simply.
"But they get to hear them?" you said, gesturing towards your friends.
"No, they don't know them either."
"What would be so bad that you wouldn't want anyone in your life to know, Matty?"
He bit his tongue as he tilted his head. "It isn't bad. I didn't say it was bad" he said.
You could tell he was playing with you, selectively choosing his words. Your curiosity piqued as you turned to face him fully with your arms crossed.
"What don't you want us to know?" you asked.
"How I — FUCK — feel — mmhmm" he tried to physically shove the words back into his mouth, clapping his hands over his mouth again as his body betrayed him.
Theo stepped forward, trying to pry his hands back. "Say it!" he said.
Mattheo tried to wiggle out of his grasp, the two of them thrashing back and forth.
"C'mon mate, time to earn those galleons! Cough it up! How you feel about what?" and Theo yanked Mattheo's hands away from his mouth just long enough for Mattheo to all but shout:
"HER!" he said, loudly, pointing to you. "About YN. I — FUCK — fucking love her."
You could have heard an owl feather hit the floor.
"Oh shit" Malfoy whispered.
Theo took a step back as he realized the enormity of what he'd just done. He'd thought Mattheo had a little crush on you, I mean, didn't they all? He thought it was just a bit of fun. But love? He'd know Mattheo for 7 years and he never so much as heard him say the word, let alone direct it at another person, in fact he knew just how much the concept had been beaten out of him as a child.
"Mate, I'm—" he started.
Mattheo glared at him in way that reminded you for a moment about the family he came from, and it was the first time you'd ever seen Theo genuinely afraid as the smile dropped from his lips and he took an unconscious step back.
"Fuck you" Mattheo said, stepping towards him, the measured control in his voice somehow more frightening than the alternative. "You always take shit too far, you know that? That's why—"
"—Matty?" you said, your quiet whisper and the questions that lingered behind it tugging at his heart and pulling his attention back to you.
He met your eyes and the fury he felt at Theo dissolved in an instant, like it had apparated from the room, because the way you were looking at him was an expression he'd only seen in his dreams. You didn't look angry or confused, you weren't laughing or embarrassed, the sparkle in your eye was back and a soft smile rested on your lips, your eyes were blown wide, hopeful even, with a hint of something else underneath that had a sensation like melted honey spreading throughout his entire body.
"Can we maybe talk... outside...?" you asked.
"Yes, for the love of the gods" he said, walking quickly to your side, letting his hand rest gently at your back, the intimate gesture not lost on anybody as your friends wolf-whistled and snickered and he flipped them the finger over his head.
Now that the truth was out, there was nothing stopping the words that flew out of Mattheo's mouth as you led him to a nearby secluded corridor.
"I really want to talk to you about this" he said, the moment you were outside of the dormitory, "I am so embarrassed that it came out that way, that's not at all how I wanted to tell you, well, I didn't want to tell you at all, I was terrified actually. I've liked you for a long time, really since the first day we met, do you remember? On the train? You were wearing that blue jumper, you smelled like cinnamon and vanilla... You always smell so fucking good—"
You laughed as you pulled him with greater urgency by the hand away from prying eyes as he continued to ramble on, the truth serum creating a veritable waterfall of words out of his mouth.
"—You're so fucking beautiful, I love your hair, your eyes, your smile, your nose... that sounds weird, but it's true, it's so fucking cute—"
"—Mattheo" you said, as you stopped, placing your hands on his chest and pressing him gently against the stone wall to get him to slow down. "Breathe."
He shook his head.
"No, it's out now, and I don't know how long this shit lasts and if I don't say this stuff now, I'm not sure I'll ever have the balls to say it to your face, I've held onto this for 7 years YN."
Your lips curled into a small pout at how sweet he was being, at the idea that your best friend had been pining for you since you were 11 years old.
"I love you" he continued breathlessly, "and not like a little bit. Like, a lot. I don't know..." he said, carding his hand through his brown curls, "I've never felt this way about anyone, anything. I'm all consumed with you. You're the only thing I think about, the only girl I want, I'd do anything for you. And I'm sorry if this is going to totally wreck our friendship, if you want things to stay the way they are, I will try my level best—"
But his words were cut short as you pressed your lips to his, capturing his truth, letting it wash over you, every word you had been desperate to hear, every thought you'd shared the same. It surprised him for only a second before his hands grasped your face and he pulled you further into him.
"You're fucking perfect" he whispered after a moment, his eyes dancing over your features.
"Remind me again why I didn't give you veritaserum like years ago?" you said, smiling against his lips.
"It's a felony?" he said, laughing.
"...Right" you said, laughing back.
You were only gone a few minutes, but as you scurried back to the dormitory you tried to fix your hair, and wipe the lipgloss off of Mattheo's face as he smiled down at you with puppy dog eyes.
"They're going to lose their mind" you said quietly just outside the door, "let's just play it cool, alright?"
And before he could respond that there was no way on earth he could possibly do that, you pushed the door open and all conversation stopped.
"...Alright?" Theo asked, turning to face you both, nervous at the potential mess he may have caused.
"Fine, we were just talking—"
"—She macked me!!" Mattheo shouted truthfully with a huge grin on his face as he wrapped his arm around you.
You gasped and swatted at him playfully, your cheeks blushing a rosy pink as your friends erupted into cheers, hoot and hollers, descending on you both as Mattheo looked down at you, glowing, happier than you could ever remember seeing him.
A/N: This was honestly just brain dump. Since they were deleted scenes I didn't really try too hard but it felt like a waste to just completely get rid of so i hope you guys enjoy itttt <333
credits to @saradika for the divider
pt 1 bonus scene
“Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”
Mattheo’s voice rang out like a curse, sharp and final as he scoffed and turned on his heel, storming toward the door of Dumbledore’s office. His boots echoed against the marble, drowning out the soft, heartbreaking sob that escaped your lips behind him—until it didn’t.
Something in the air shifted.
He paused, jaw clenched. Then he heard it — drip.
One drop. A dark, wet sound against the marble floor.
Mattheo turned slowly. His heart seized.
There it was — a single crimson drop, stark and glossy against the pale tile. His gaze rose, and the world tilted.
You were standing there, trembling, eyes wide with betrayal—and bleeding. You were standing in place, trembling, hands loosely by your sides. Bloody tears streamed down your cheeks in thin, surreal trails, like paint running on a portrait in the rain. Your eyes—still fixed on him—were glassy and wide.
“(Y/N)!” He choked, lunging forward, cupping your face with shaking hands, “What’s happening—hey, hey—look at me—look at me, darling—”
But your sobs only grew more erratic. Your body trembled beneath his touch. Your nose began to bleed. Then your ears. Thin, red rivulets trailing like spiderwebs. Mattheo’s pulse spiked in terror.
His hands cupped your face, shaking, trying to soothe you, trying to stop it—anything.
But you kept crying. Kept bleeding.
You choked suddenly, doubling over, blood spilling from your lips.
“HELP HER!” Mattheo screamed, his voice cracking as he spun toward the shadows of the room—he knew someone had been there. Someone was watching. This wasn’t real—it couldn’t be real—
“Please.” He whispered now, barely able to breathe, hands slick with your blood as he held you.
You looked up at him with glassy, red-rimmed eyes, and coughed again—blood splattering his shirt.
Your blood-slicked hand gripped his wrist, desperate and weak, and you looked up at him with glassy eyes. Your lips moved, but no sound came out.
Mattheo could feel his own tears now—hot, panicked—sliding down his cheeks as he held you closer, “No—no, no, don’t do this—stay with me, please—I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean any of it—”
But your body gave a final shudder, and your hand fell limp.
And Mattheo screamed.
And then—
He jolted upright.
His chest heaved as he gasped for breath, eyes wide and wild, heart thundering so violently it hurt. Sweat clung to his skin, his hair damp, his hands trembling in the dim, early morning light filtering through the heavy curtains of the Slytherin dorm.
For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.
But all he saw were the green-tinted shadows of his dorm, the quiet rustling of the lake outside, and the soft, rhythmic breathing of his sleeping roommates.
His fingers twitched.
They were clean. Dry. No blood.
Mattheo reached up and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. Wet.
He had been crying.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and tried to steady his breathing. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It was just a dream. But the image of you—broken, bleeding, terrified—was burned behind his eyelids like a scar. Your final look of helplessness. The weight of your limp hand slipping from his wrist.
He pulled his knees up to his chest and curled his arms around them, grounding himself in the familiar chill of the dorm’s stone walls.
His voice was a whisper, hoarse and shaken.
“Fuck…”
The silence of the room offered no comfort. Only his own ragged breathing filled the space.
He sat there like that for a long while, trying to calm the storm inside him.
Trying to forget the way your blood felt on his hands.
Trying to shake the echo of your dying breath.
But it clung to him like a curse.
And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop shaking.
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chatter—clinking cutlery, rustling parchment, and the occasional burst of laughter. You entered a bit later than usual, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you slipped into your usual seat beside Mattheo at the Slytherin table.
“Morning.” You murmured with a soft smile, nudging your shoulder against his.
Mattheo was already sitting there, but something was… off.
His posture was too stiff, his eyes a little too sharp as they flicked to you the moment you sat down. And the second he didn’t look you up and down with that rugged smirk of his—that wolfish grin that almost made him look like a cartoon character up to no good—or make that same tired joke you heard every morning about how he could eat you for breakfast, you knew something was wrong.
“Hey,” He said, voice a little too casual, “You’re late.”
You raised an eyebrow, “Yeah, I overslept. Why—?”
But the question died in your throat.
He was scanning you—slowly, thoroughly. Not in a flirtatious, teasing way like usual, but in a way that made your skin prickle. Like he was looking for bruises. Evidence. Like he expected to find something broken.
First your face. Then your neck. Your hands. His gaze lingered just a little too long on your chest—but not in the usual Mattheo Riddle way, not in a way that made you feel like your shirt had turned invisible. No, he was watching the rise and fall of your breathing. Focused. Intent. Like he was confirming you were actually alive.
You blinked, “...Mattheo?”
“Hm?” He snapped out of it and glanced away, grabbing a piece of toast like he hadn’t just looked at you like you’d been dragged out of a battlefield, “Nothing. Did you sleep well?”
“I did,” You said slowly, “Are you okay?”
He nodded too fast, “Yeah. Just didn’t sleep well.”
That was it. No snark. No flirt. No smirk. He went back to his breakfast like he hadn’t just uncharacteristically panicked over your wellbeing.
You gave him a long, searching look, but he avoided your eyes this time.
Then, under the table, his hand found yours. Warm and steady. His fingers curled around yours without a word, and once again you knew—knew in your gut—that something had shaken him.
And though he tried to keep up the act—tried to pretend like nothing was wrong—you noticed how his grip never loosened.
How his thumb kept tracing soft, slow circles against your skin.
And how, every few minutes, his eyes flicked back to your face like he still couldn’t quite believe you were there, whole and safe.
Class had been dragging.
Mattheo sat slouched in his seat near the back of the dungeon classroom, twirling his quill idly between ink-stained fingers as Professor Snape droned on about the properties of powdered root of asphodel. He wasn't listening. Not really. Not with his mind still caught in the haze of that dream from the night before.
He wanted to pay attention to the lesson. Really, he did. He wanted something—anything—to distract him, to pull him away from the images burned into his memory. But no matter how hard he tried, he found himself zoning out, Snape’s voice fading into a dull thrum in the background as his mind replayed the worst parts.
The sight of your panicked face, covered in blood.
The way you shuddered as you vomited more of it.
The moment your body went limp in his arms, dead weight pressing against his chest.
He swallowed roughly, trying to shake it off.
Just a few more hours, he reminded himself. Just a few more hours and I’ll see her again.
He’d checked his watch three times in the last fifteen minutes.
Then—a knock at the door.
The class paused. Snape stopped mid-sentence.
The door creaked open, and in stepped Madam Pomfrey, calm as ever in her pale blue robes. She walked over to Snape and leaned in, whispering something low enough that the rest of the class couldn’t hear.
But Mattheo’s head snapped up the second he heard his name spoken quietly.
Snape’s dark eyes lifted from her to Mattheo, his mouth curling with vague curiosity. “Mr. Riddle,” He drawled, “it appears something… urgent requires your attention.”
A few heads turned.
Mattheo was already rising from his chair, tension pulling at his shoulders like strings ready to snap. Madam Pomfrey was waiting in the hall. He followed her out, barely waiting for the door to shut behind them.
“Is something wrong?” He demanded immediately.
She gave him a patient smile, folding her hands in front of her, “Don’t panic, Mr. Riddle. There’s nothing wrong—I’m just obligated to inform you that Miss (L/N) is currently in the hospital wing. She fainted this morning due to—”
She didn’t finish.
Mattheo was gone.
He bolted down the corridor like he was being chased, students parting instinctively as the usually composed Slytherin tore through the halls. His robe flapped wildly behind him, his thoughts a blur of no, no, no—please. He took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the protests from portraits and the startled yelps of younger students who had to jump out of the way.
He didn’t stop until he reached the Hospital Wing, shoving the doors open so hard they rebounded off the walls.
And there you were.
Sitting on one of the beds, propped up against the pillows, a cold cloth pressed to your forehead. You looked pale, a little disoriented—but you were awake. Breathing.
His chest collapsed with relief.
You blinked in surprise, “Mattheo?”
He didn’t speak.
He just crossed the room in seconds, dropping to his knees beside the bed and taking your face in his hands, scanning you the same way he had at breakfast, only worse—more frantic, more raw. His fingers brushed your temple, your cheeks, your lips, like he needed to feel that you were alive. He inspected every inch of your face, checking for any traces of blood.
“…Hi?” You offered, confused.
Madam Pomfrey entered calmly behind him, completely unbothered. “As I was trying to say,” She said mildly, “she had a dizzy spell. Wasn’t unconscious for more than a few seconds.”
Mattheo stood there, breathing hard, trying to calm the roar in his ears, “Do you know what happened?”
You stared at him in silence, trying to hide the tiny smile and the flutter in your chest at the way he was taking responsibility for you—so fiercely protective. So yours. So husbandly.
You felt like giggling like a first year.
“I ran a diagnostic spell,” Madam Pomfrey answered, “but nothing came up. Likely low blood sugar, the heat, or a brewing sickness.”
But Mattheo was still in his own head.
Nothing from the diagnostic meant it wasn’t an illness.
Which meant it could be something else.
His mind jumped to all the possibilities—curses, magical interference... or worse. A bond faltering. A thread fraying.
“Mattheo…” You said softly.
“You’re okay,” He muttered, more to himself than to you, “You’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” You echoed gently, squeezing his hand, “It was nothing.”
He nodded, “It was nothing.”
But you heard the way his voice cracked.
You exhaled softly, reaching for him and tugging him up onto the bed beside you. He slid in without hesitation, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, burying his face in your shoulder as though to make sure you wouldn’t disappear again.
You kissed the top of his head, fingers combing through his hair.
“It’s okay.” You murmured.
And for a long moment, that was enough.
The afternoon drifted by slowly.
Madam Pomfrey insisted you stay in the Hospital Wing overnight “just to be safe,” and while her tone remained light, almost indulgent, the words settled like lead in Mattheo’s stomach.
He didn’t argue—not out loud.
But the longer you lay in that bed, the more he paced.
He stayed with you for hours, only stepping away when she practically shooed him out to let you rest, and even then, he barely made it to the chair in the far corner before drifting back to your bedside minutes later. He brought you water. Helped you sit up. Tucked the blanket around your shoulders like his hands couldn’t stop touching you for fear you’d slip away again.
And every time you reassured him you felt fine, he just nodded—tight-lipped and unconvinced.
Because no matter what anyone said, his mind kept playing that dream on repeat. The blood. The limpness of your body. The weight of it in his arms. The silence of your last breath.
By the time evening rolled around, the castle had grown quieter. Lanterns flickered in their sconces, and the beds around you—empty earlier—were now filled with students nursing Quidditch injuries and potion burns.
Madam Pomfrey returned to check your vitals one last time. “No changes,” She confirmed, gently tapping her wand against the edge of the bedframe, “You’re stable. But I’d still like to keep you overnight.”
You gave her a tired smile and nodded, used to her caution.
Mattheo, however, went still.
His jaw tightened, fingers curling into the fabric of his trousers. Overnight. That meant he had to leave. That meant sleeping without you, waking up without seeing you there, without hearing your heartbeat beside his.
Pomfrey turned to him, “You need rest too, Mr. Riddle.”
“I’m fine.” He said quietly, but the look she gave him was firm and motherly in that way that told him resistance was pointless.
“It’s okay,” You said gently, squeezing his hand, “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
He looked at you like he didn’t believe you. Like if he left now, that dream might catch up with reality.
You leaned up and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, soft and slow, “Go. You need to sleep too.”
He stood slowly, reluctantly, hands dragging along the sheets where yours had rested. Then he bent over, brushing a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
“Try to sleep,” He murmured, “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
You looked up at him, eyes warm with something unspoken, and reached out to hook your pinky around his, “I’ll be right here.”
He gave the tiniest smile, lips twitching faintly. But his eyes still looked haunted.
Pomfrey cleared her throat.
Mattheo straightened, forced himself to let go of your hand, and turned away.
As he walked back through the corridors toward the Slytherin dorms, every step felt heavier than the last. He hated this—hated the way the stone halls felt colder without you next to him. Hated that he was going to bed tonight with the ghost of a nightmare still clinging to his thoughts and no way to reach for you and make it go away.
He didn’t sleep well that night.
Didn’t sleep much at all.
He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, trying not to let his thoughts spiral. He tried to convince himself that you’d be in class tomorrow, rolling your eyes at how dramatic he was being. That this was just a little blip.
He just lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about blood or silence or how far away you felt.
And counting the hours until morning.
Before the rest of the castle had even stirred, before the warmth of the sun had properly reached the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was already slipping through the halls, hair a mess, tie crooked, shirt only halfway tucked. He didn’t stop for breakfast. Didn’t even glance at the Great Hall as he passed.
He needed to see you.
The Hospital Wing was still dimly lit when he arrived, soft morning light spilling through the high windows and painting gold lines across the stone floor. It was quiet—still—and for a second, he let out a shaky breath of relief as he approached your bed.
But the moment he saw you, it came right back.
You looked worse than yesterday.
Your skin was paler, flushed in places with heat. Your eyes were glassy and tired, lips dry and cracked. A damp cloth had fallen from your forehead to the pillow, and your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. You were still asleep—restless, shifting occasionally with soft murmurs.
Mattheo’s heart stopped cold.
“Pomfrey...!” He called, too loud, too fast.
She emerged from behind the shelves, a cup of potion in her hands. “She spiked a fever overnight,” she said calmly, setting it down on the tray beside your bed. “Nothing alarming. Classic flu symptoms. She’s dehydrated, her body’s fighting back—she’ll be alright.”
He didn’t sit this time. He didn’t speak.
He just stood there, frozen, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
“You should get some food,” Madam Pomfrey added gently, casting a diagnostic charm that glowed soft blue over your figure, “You’ve been hovering since yesterday.”
Mattheo barely heard her.
His eyes stayed on you, fixed and burning, like if he stared hard enough, he could will the sickness out of your body.
His hand reached out to brush the damp strands of hair from your forehead, fingers lingering at your temple. Your skin was hot to the touch.
Too hot.
You stirred faintly, brow twitching like you heard him, but didn’t wake.
He sat down beside you, pressing the backs of his fingers to your cheek again, then reached for the discarded cloth to replace it with a fresh one from the basin.
Every motion was careful. Gentle. Like you were made of glass.
Mattheo didn’t know how to do this—didn’t know how to watch and wait and not do something.
He had all this magic, all this fire in his blood, and none of it could fix this.
By mid-morning, Madam Pomfrey finally gave him that look—the one that said you’ve been here too long.
“She’s stable, Mr. Riddle,” She said gently, approaching with a steaming vial of potion in hand, “Her fever is coming down, and I’ll be monitoring her closely. You have classes, don’t you?”
Mattheo didn’t answer right away. His hand was still in yours, thumb stroking absentminded, like letting go would snap the thin thread of calm he’d barely managed to tie together.
“I don’t care about classes.” He muttered, eyes fixed on your face.
Pomfrey raised a brow, “You should.”
He glanced at her, jaw clenched, but said nothing.
“She’s not dying,” She added, gently but firmly, “I’ve seen flu before, Mr. Riddle. You have my word—if anything changes, I’ll send for you immediately.”
He sat still for a beat longer.
Then, slowly, he pulled his hand from yours and rose. His chest felt tight as he adjusted his tie and slung his bag over his shoulder like it weighed ten times more than it should.
He looked back at you once more before leaving, eyes lingering on the rise and fall of your chest. Still breathing. Still alive.
Although his mind couldn't resist the opportunity to remind him.
'For now.'
The lesson dragged. He didn’t hear a word of it.
His mind kept replaying the day he almost died—how the curse took hold of his magic first. How slow it was. How subtle. How he had just brushed it off as being an off day. How he had blamed it on the headache. How no one realized until it was nearly too late. He’d felt it beginning long before anyone else saw the symptoms.
What if that was happening to you now?
What if you were suffering through it silently?
What if this was the same thing again, just inverted—his punishment echoing back to you?
His hands curled into fists under the table.
Just a flu, he told himself.
Just a flu.
He pushed open the doors to the Hospital Wing just as his free period began, expecting to find you asleep, maybe sipping broth, maybe looking just a little better.
Instead, he heard retching.
Violent, raw, stomach-emptying retching from behind the partition.
His heart stopped.
“(Y/N)?” He called, already striding toward your bed.
And then he saw you.
You were curled forward over a conjured basin, your body shaking, arms trembling as another wave of nausea hit you. Madam Pomfrey stood nearby, already bustling to hand you a cloth and a vial of anti-nausea potion. Your breath came in ragged, painful gasps, and your whole body shook with the effort.
Mattheo’s heart stopped.
“No.”
He was across the room in a blink, dropping to his knees beside you.
“No, no, no, no—” His hands were everywhere—on your back, brushing hair from your face, gripping your shoulders, “What happened? What happened?!”
You couldn’t answer.
You were too busy choking.
Your throat burned. Your limbs were lead. Tears stung your eyes as you tried to breathe.
Another wave hit, and you leaned into the basin again, gasping and trembling violently. Tears stung the corners of your eyes from the effort.
He felt helpless again. Just like before.
Madam Pomfrey answered calmly, unfazed, “The fever’s spiking, and her stomach’s rejecting the potions for now. This happens sometimes. Her body just needs to fight through it.”
Mattheo didn’t respond.
He barely heard her.
Because you were hurting. Because his worst fear—that this was more than just illness—was starting to feel more and more real with every passing hour.
He sat beside you on the bed as you slowly leaned back, exhausted and pale, tears streaking your cheeks from the strain. He wiped them away without a word, pressing his forehead to yours as he breathed you in.
You blinked slowly, trying to focus on him, your fingers brushing weakly against his arm, “Mattheo…”
“I’m here.” He whispered.
Dinner time came, and the Hospital Wing still smelled like sweat, antiseptic, and too many healing charms. You hadn’t gotten worse—but you hadn’t gotten better either. You were half-asleep, murmuring nonsense every now and then, and still too feverish to keep even water down.
And Mattheo?
Mattheo was unraveling.
He hadn't left your side except to use the loo. He’d refused food. Refused rest. His hair hung in messy curls over his forehead, and his sleeves were still rolled to the elbows from when he’d tried cooling you with his own spells hours ago.
So when Madam Pomfrey gently insisted he take a break and stretch his legs—“Go get a proper meal, Mr. Riddle, or I’ll Stun you into bedrest myself”—he didn’t go to the Great Hall.
He went straight to McGonagall’s office.
She wasn’t there.
But she was in Dumbledore’s.
He knew it before he even knocked.
The door creaked open on its own, a little swirl of candlelight spilling out across the hallway. The warm scent of parchment, lemon drops, and old magic hit his nose instantly.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk. McGonagall stood nearby, her arms crossed tightly over her tartan shawl.
“Mr. Riddle.” Dumbledore said softly, as though he’d been expecting him.
Mattheo didn’t waste time. He strode into the room like a storm, fists clenched and chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted the entire way.
“She’s not getting better,” He said hoarsely, “She’s not eating, she’s not waking up properly, she’s—she’s getting worse.”
McGonagall’s expression softened immediately.
Dumbledore set down the book in his hands, “Madam Pomfrey assured us she’s receiving excellent care.”
Mattheo shook his head, “It’s not that. It’s the pact, isn’t it? The curse—whatever the hell you call it. This is what happened to me. And she’s showing all the same signs—”
McGonagall stepped forward quickly, “Mr. Riddle, stop. It’s not the pact.”
His jaw clenched, “How do you know that?”
“Because we’ve checked,” She said firmly. “The second Miss (L/N) landed herself in the hospital wing we were notified and we've checked. The bond has been fulfilled. She’s not being punished.”
Mattheo hesitated.
Dumbledore’s eyes were kind but tired, “What she has is ordinary. Mortal. A rather nasty strain of magical flu that's been making its rounds. Unpleasant, yes. But not fatal. She will recover.”
Mattheo looked between them, heart pounding, throat dry, “Then why does it feel like she’s slipping away?”
“Because you love her.” McGonagall said gently.
That broke something in his chest.
The tension in his shoulders collapsed slightly. His fingers unclenched.
Dumbledore gave him a warm smile, “She’ll recover. Magic will assist where it can, but time and rest will do the rest.”
There was a silence.
And then Mattheo let out a shaky breath and nodded, just once.
“…Okay.”
“You may return to the hospital wing for now, I'll ask Madam Pomfrey to write you a note so you can stay past curfew,” McGonagall said, “Although you should eat something. The last thing we need is another one of you bed-ridden.”
He didn’t argue.
He turned and left in silence, making his way back to the Hospital Wing like someone who had just been unburdened—but still not healed.
Not yet.
Not until you woke up.
Not until your fever broke and your voice came back and he could touch your face without wondering if you were slipping away again.
You woke to the faint glow of the Hospital Wing’s sconces flickering in the corner.
Your throat ached, your limbs were heavy, and everything from your eyes to your bones felt overheated—but not as much as the warmth curled against your side.
Mattheo.
His head rested just beside your hip, one hand loosely gripping yours on top of the blanket. His brows were furrowed even in sleep. You could feel the tension still wound through his fingers, like he was clinging on for dear life even in his dreams.
You squeezed his hand gently.
He stirred, eyes fluttering open—bloodshot, rimmed with shadows, and filled with so much relief it made your breath catch.
“You’re awake,” He whispered hoarsely, sitting up straight, “You—are you okay? Does your head still hurt? Are you—?”
“I’m okay,” You rasped, voice barely a whisper, “I think.”
His hands were already fussing over your forehead, checking your temperature like he didn’t quite believe you, “You still feel warm…”
You caught his wrist.
“Mattheo,” You said, soft but firm, “What’s going on with you?”
He froze.
You expected the usual deflection, some sarcastic remark or a nonchalant shrug.
But instead, his mouth trembled slightly.
“I’m sorry.” He whispered.
You blinked, “You don’t need to apologize. Just tell me what’s—”
“No,” He said, shaking his head, “I’m not just sorry about now. I mean… I’m sorry for that first day. When I said I didn’t care if you died.”
Your lips parted slightly.
“Oh,” You murmured, “Mattheo—”
“I meant it. At the time. Or—I thought I did,” He went on, voice thick, “And I know we both said horrible things to each other, but I—every time you so much as cough I remember that moment, and all I can think is that the universe is going to punish me for it. That I made you sick. That this is some twisted karma for not choosing you fast enough. For pushing you away.”
Your heart clenched.
“Mattheo—”
“I’ve never had anything this good,” He said, voice breaking, “Not in a long time. Not like this. I’ve never loved like this. Not with my whole fucking heart and soul like—like I do with you. And I’m terrified it’s all too good to be true. That I don’t deserve it. That you’ll be taken from me like everything else that’s ever mattered.”
You didn’t say anything at first.
You shifted slightly, brushing your lips against his hair, and then reached for your wand on the bedside table. Mattheo sat up straighter, brows furrowed.
“What are you—?”
“Proving something.” You whispered, voice rasped but steady.
He blinked, “Love, you don’t need—”
But you were already sitting up slowly, ignoring the way your body protested. You gripped your wand tightly in your hand, closed your eyes—and let your thoughts drift.
You thought of the way he kissed your knuckles when he thought you were asleep.
The way his body felt against yours that day when he rescued you from the lake.
The feeling of warmth and magic surging through when golden butterflies continued to erupt around you in the library.
The ridiculous, smug grin he wore after he had given you a swimming lesson.
The way he always held your hand under the table.
The way he'd hold you close every time he kissed you.
The way he had run to the Hospital Wing today.
You smiled faintly.
“Expecto Patronum.”
A rush of warmth swept through your chest—and light erupted from your wand. Brilliant silver burst forward, taking shape with impossible clarity: your Patronus danced through the Hospital Wing, elegant and strong, wrapping once around your bed before flickering softly into the air like stardust.
Mattheo's breath caught in his throat.
"I'm not losing my magic, Mattheo. I'm okay." You squeezed his hand, “This is just the flu, baby. It’s not the curse. It’s not the end of the world.”
He stared at the place your Patronus had been, lips parted like he didn’t know what to say.
“That was...” He cleared his throat, “That was the clearest I’ve ever seen it.”
“That’s because I was thinking about you.” You murmured.
He looked at you like you hung the stars. And slowly, he leaned in, gaze flicking to your lips.
But just as his nose brushed yours, you put a hand over his mouth.
“Nope,” You croaked, “You’re not catching the flu.”
Mattheo froze, blinking, then pulled back an inch with a choked laugh, “Are you serious right now?”
“Deadly.”
He laughed again, this time properly, full and warm and relieved, “Merlin, you’re unbelievable.”
"The last thing Madam Pomfrey needs is us stuck in this hospital wing for more time. She's really quite had it with the amount of time you've been spending here."
You were curled beneath a blanket, propped up by pillows and sipping weak tea, when the door slammed open with no warning.
"NO NOTE? BEDS EMPTY? (Y/N) GONE?!"
Harry’s voice rang through the ward like a spell gone wrong, followed immediately by Hermione’s furious glare and Ron’s wide-eyed panic. Behind them swept a flurry of black and green—Theo, Draco, Blaise, and Enzo—who looked far too entertained for the situation at hand.
Mattheo, seated casually in the chair beside your bed, groaned under his breath, “Merlin save us…”
Hermione didn’t even glance at him. She marched straight up to you, arms crossed like a general before battle.
“Why,” She demanded, “did I have to hear from Enzo, who heard it from Draco, who heard it from Mattheo, that you were in the hospital wing? Why didn’t you tell us?!”
Harry was right on her heels, jabbing an accusatory finger toward Mattheo, “You told him first?! And not me?! I’m your best friend!”
“Technically, I didn’t tell Mattheo,” You croaked, setting down your tea, “Madam Pomfrey told him.”
“Okay, well, you could’ve asked her to tell us too—” Ron began, still half out of breath.
“I didn’t ask her to tell anyone—” You tried to explain, “she told him of her own volition.”
“That’s a lie,” Draco cut in from the foot of your bed, sounding almost bored but with a glint in his eye that meant trouble, “Hogwarts staff aren’t allowed to tell other students without the patient’s consent. They’re only obligated to tell…” He trailed off.
His gaze snapped from you to Mattheo, then back again. His eyes widened.
“Oh. My. God.” He said slowly, “Tell me you didn’t.”
The room went utterly silent.
Harry blinked, “Didn’t what?”
Mattheo coughed into his fist, studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. You shifted under the blankets, “Well…”
Draco’s voice had sharpened, “You mean to tell me that she’s your—” He cut himself off with a scoff that quickly morphed into a horrified laugh, “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Hermione, finally catching on, gasped loudly, "YOU TWO BLITHERING IDIOTS GOT MARRIED?!"
The ward went dead silent—until Harry spluttered so hard he nearly fell over.
“I’m sorry—YOU’RE WHAT?!”
Theo's jaw dropped, “You—you married her?!”
"Well technically," You began, not helping your case at all, "It wasn't exactly a marriage, more of a magical binding of our souls."
“Since it was either that or die horribly thanks to some ancient pact our ancestors made.” Mattheo continued flatly, like he was reading the back of a cereal box.
Ron gaped at you both, “Since when?! Where? Who on earth would be stupid enough to marry you two?!”
You tapped your chin, “The day after my birthday? Or maybe the day after that? I don’t know—it was midnight. Right here in the hospital wing, very romantic. And apparently Professor Dumbledore proved stupid enough.”
“Didn’t you hate each other for months after that and tell each other to off yourselves every chance you got?” Enzo asked, clearly horrified.
You sipped your tea, “It was our honeymoon period.”
You had reluctantly agreed to meet him by the Black Lake after curfew.
Mostly because he’d looked at you with those stupid, molten eyes and said, “Trust me,” in that tone—the one that made you weak in the knees.
You’d hoped—hoped—he just wanted to mess around by the shore. Kiss you stupid. Maybe ogle your bikini under the moonlight, hands wandering.
Imagine your surprise when you realized it was not to see you in a cute bikini.
He was already waist-deep in the water when you arrived, dark curls dripping, a slow grin spreading across his face.
“Clothes off,” He called, “We’re doing this.”
You blinked, “Doing what?”
“You’re learning to swim.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Wait. You’re serious about this?” You asked, arms wrapping tightly around yourself as the midnight mist curled off the lake, “Like—actually swim?”
Mattheo stood confidently in the shallows, bare-chested and smug, droplets sliding down his collarbone. “Yes,” He said simply, like it was obvious, “Did you think I brought you out here just to stare at your arse?”
“Well... yes?”
He sighed—fond, exasperated, and hopelessly in love, “Can’t deny I’m going to cop a feel. But no, today is strictly for educational purposes.”
You narrowed your eyes, “You said this was a date.”
He smirked, “It is. You and me. Water. Wet clothes. Intimate touching. Very romantic.”
You rolled your eyes, but fondness bloomed warm in your chest like wildflowers. He was insufferable, overbearing, smug—and you adored him.
You slid slowly into the lake, hissing at the chill. Mattheo was beside you instantly, hands warm and steady at your waist.
“Easy,” He murmured, “We’ll stay shallow today.”
“I’m not scared of the water.” You muttered, even though your grip on his shoulders said otherwise.
He didn’t call you out. Just kissed your forehead, “I know. You’re my brave girl.”
Something in his tone was far too smug for your taste, but you were too cold to argue. You pressed your chest to his, trying to stop your teeth from chattering.
“I hate you.” You said flatly.
“Come on, pretty girl. Don’t be like that,” He cooed, “I’m just worried you’ll get yourself drowned when I’m not there to save you next time.”
“My next husband will, after I drown you for making me do this.”
“With the way you’re clinging to me, baby, if I go down, you’re coming with me.”
“Well, you do love it when I go down.” You purred, fingers trailing slowly down his chest.
Your legs wrapped tightly around his waist in what was absolutely not a floating technique. Your arms looped around his neck, chin resting on his shoulder as you tried to calm your heart and get used to the chill.
Mattheo’s hands skimmed up and down your hips, like he was trying very, very hard not to enjoy this.
Your lips brushed his jaw. He froze.
“Matty,” You whispered. “I’m cold. Can we please do this another day?”
“Baby,” He said, voice low, “We both know you have no intention of doing this another day.”
“Well,” You said, tightening your hold, “it’s hard to find swimming appealing when it’s the reason I can’t feel my toes… and when it’s the reason my husband is ignoring the fact that I’m in a skimpy bikini right now.”
His grip on your hips tightened—just slightly.
You smirked. Checkmate.
Mattheo exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight.
“You’re not gonna distract me, love.” He murmured, voice ragged, fingers twitching against your bikini strings like they were taunting him.
You could practically feel the internal war going on behind his eyes—honorable swim-coach-Mattheo vs. barely-holding-it-together-Mattheo whose half-naked wife was currently wrapped around him like a siren.
He gave a strangled groan, tipping his head back toward the stars, “Merlin help me…”
“I don’t think Merlin is the one you should be worried about right now.” You giggled, peppering kisses along his throat—along the sharp cut of his jaw and that damn Adam’s apple you loved so much.
Every brush of your lips sparked a heat low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire. It didn’t quite chase away the chill of the lake, but it helped. Especially with the way Mattheo’s breathing stuttered beneath your mouth.
You grinned. “Something wrong, Coach?” You asked innocently, fingers curling into the damp curls at the back of his neck, “You look a little… distracted.”
“Why are you being difficult?” He asked through clenched teeth, “I’m trying to teach you survival skills.”
“I’d survive just fine if you let me stay on the shore in your hoodie and make out like normal people.”
His hands suddenly gripped your thighs, lifting you higher around his waist as he waded back a few steps—far enough that your toes no longer touched the lakebed.
You squeaked and clung tighter, well and truly suspended now in his arms.
“Mattheo!”
His gaze flicked to your mouth.
“Say one more word,” He warned, voice dark, “and this is no longer a swimming lesson.”
You narrowed your eyes, undeterred, “...word.”
That was it. His mouth crashed onto yours.
The lake didn’t matter. The cold didn’t matter. The lesson—completely forgotten.
He kissed you like it was the first time and the last. Hands roaming. Lips urgent. Like he was going to make you feel every ounce of his sheer want in this one kiss.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as you sighed against him, triumphant.
“Lesson over?” You breathed against his lips.
“Lesson,” He growled, kissing down your neck, “postponed.”
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
bonus scene pt 2
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.
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