bloodlines (m.r.)
Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader
Word Count: 13.2k (wow)
Summary: When a centuries-old vow comes into fruition, you're bound to the boy who once swore he'd never love anyone — especially not you.
A/N: I actually hate this😭
Week 3 of @acourtofchaos's Festival of AUs
@obsessedwithceleste hope u like it pookie <3
The crackling of the fire in the hearth was the sole sound that stirred the stillness, each pop and hiss echoing through the chamber like a whisper of fate. Draped in heavy maroon velvets, the man in the high-backed chair let out a weary sigh, his gaze sharp as steel as it settled upon the figure opposite him.
"How am I to know you’ll keep your word, Salazar?" He asked, "You've never been one to turn away from glory — especially when it's for your own name."
His companion, cloaked in darker hues, paused. A slow, sly smile crept across his face — thin, deliberate, and far too familiar. Godric couldn't help but think of his companion’s namesake — all that was missing was a forked tongue singing sweet lies.
"Then let us bind our names as one," Salazar said at last, his tone smooth as still water, "What glory comes to Slytherin shall then be glory to Gryffindor as well."
Godric narrowed his eyes, fingers running through his beard. A humorless breath escaped him, half laugh, half warning, "You’ve no daughter, Salazar."
"Not yet, that much is true," The other replied calmly, "Yet that is the very point — a safeguard. Let us seal the pact with magic: when our descendants are come of age, they shall wed. Should they fail to do so… then let their bloodline be forfeit."
Godric regarded him in silence, the fire casting shifting shadows across his face. After a long pause, he stood.
"Very well," He said, "You have a deal, old friend."
***
Potions was hardly the class you needed to attend when you were this sleep-deprived. Snape gave out instructions quick and fast and one after the other — and it was difficult enough to catch all of them while wide awake. In your current state, it was a blessing you were understanding every second word.
You’d been plagued by nightmares all night — visions of a dark room barely touched by light, the hiss and rattle of a snake’s tail, and a searing golden thread weaving itself through your chest, leaving a burning trail in its wake as it tied a tight knot around your heart. You woke up feeling like something ancient had looked directly into your soul.
The classroom buzzed with low murmurs and the occasional clink of glass as students moved about, carefully preparing their assignments. You stood at your workstation with Hermione, watching your cauldron bubble gently as she measured out powdered moonstone.
“Careful,” She muttered, “Snape said too much will make it foam—”
Before you could respond, there was a loud laugh from the back of the room.
“Oi, Nott — your stirring looks like a troll having a fit!” Blaise teased, shoving Theo lightly from behind.
Theo rolled his eyes, scoffing, “You wish your potion looked half as decent, Zabini—”
But Blaise gave him another nudge — harder this time, more of a shove.
Theo stumbled back, and before you could react, his shoulder slammed into yours with full force.
You gasped and staggered forward, crashing into the classmate standing in front of you. You hit Mattheo Riddle square in the chest — hard.
And then — everything went wrong.
The moment his skin brushed yours, the room exploded in light. A brilliant, blinding pulse of gold erupted between you — not fire, not lightning, but magic, raw and ancient and alive. The light burst outward in a shockwave that swept through the room.
Every cauldron detonated at once.
Glass shattered. Potions hissed and spilled across the floor. Shrill screams echoed off the stone walls. Smoke and sparks filled the air.
You and Mattheo stumbled apart, dazed and breathless — and yet, the golden thread of light still shimmered faintly between your fingertips.
Everyone in the classroom froze.
Hermione had her wand half-raised, eyes wide. Ron was crouched behind the table, shielding his potion-splattered notes. Harry looked between you and Mattheo like he’d just witnessed the first sign of the apocalypse.
“What the hell was that?” Malfoy demanded from across the room, brushing sludge off his robes.
“Did you see that light?” “She cursed him—” “No, he cursed her—!”
“Enough!” Snape bellowed, storming out of the smoke cloud, looking more furious than you’d ever seen him.
But before he could speak further, another voice cut clean through the chaos like a blade.
“Miss (L/N). Mr. Riddle. You will come with me. Now.”
Professor McGonagall stood in the doorway, as if the castle itself had summoned her the second it happened. Her eyes were sharp as steel behind her spectacles, and the look on her face made your stomach twist with dread.
Mattheo didn’t say a word. He just shot you a glare — like this was somehow your fault — and stepped past the wreckage toward the door.
You followed in stunned silence, the echo of that magic still buzzing in your bones.
You had no idea what had just happened. But it had changed something. And you could feel it — whatever this was… it would never be the same again.
***
The heavy oak doors to the Headmaster’s office creaked open on their own, and you stepped inside behind McGonagall, your nerves fraying with every step. Mattheo Riddle trailed a few paces behind you, shoulders squared, jaw clenched like he was ready to bite someone’s head off.
Professor Snape was already inside, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. He didn’t even blink when you walked in — just tilted his head like he was mentally cataloguing your sins.
But it was Dumbledore who drew your attention. He stood in front of his desk, hands clasped, that same maddeningly calm expression on his face.
"Ah. Miss (L/N)," He said warmly, "And Mr. Riddle. Good. You're both here."
You barely had time to open your mouth before he added, with a small twinkle in his eye:
“And… a very happy birthday, (Y/N).”
You blinked, “Um… thank you, Professor?”
The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. It wasn't the usual eccentric kindness you were used to from him. There was something off about it. Something purposeful.
You glanced nervously at McGonagall, who was avoiding your eyes for once, lips pressed into a thin line. Snape still hadn’t moved.
“…Did I do something wrong?” You asked, voice quiet, “Because I didn’t—”
“You didn’t,” Dumbledore cut in gently, “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
You exhaled — a brief flicker of relief — before his next words sent your stomach plunging.
“But you have… reached a rather important day. One that has long been awaited.”
Your eyebrows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”
Dumbledore turned, walked behind his desk, and drew out a drawer. From it, he retrieved a scroll of ancient parchment — so old and brittle that it looked like it might crumble if you breathed too hard. Strange runes glowed faintly along the edges in gold and green ink.
“It may surprise you,” Dumbledore said slowly, unrolling the scroll with care, “to learn that you are not the first in your family to attend Hogwarts. In fact… you are of a very old line. One that traces directly back to Godric Gryffindor himself.”
Your mouth parted slightly, “Wait—what?”
“And Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore continued, without looking at Mattheo, “descends from another of our founders — Salazar Slytherin.”
Mattheo scoffed, crossing his arms, “Yeah? So what?”
Dumbledore’s eyes lifted, suddenly sharper — older, “So… a pact made a thousand years ago, in secrecy and desperation, has finally come to pass.”
“A pact?” You echoed, staring at the glowing scroll, “What kind of pact?”
McGonagall’s voice cut through the silence — tight and grave, “A magically binding agreement. Between the founders themselves. A vow that, should descendants of their lines be born in the same generation… they would be joined. In marriage.”
The word hit the room like a curse.
“A marriage,” Dumbledore confirmed, “Written into the fabric of their magic itself. Designed to activate when the conditions were… finally right.”
You stared at him.
“No. That’s — that’s insane.”
“I would be inclined to agree.” Snape muttered dryly.
Dumbledore continued, unshaken, “The spell lay dormant for centuries. Until today.”
“Because we — because I touched him?” You asked, turning toward Mattheo, who now looked two seconds from spontaneous combustion.
“Because you are now of age,” Dumbledore said gently, “and the pact recognizes you both. When your magic met his — it awakened.”
Snape finally spoke, voice cold, “You both witnessed the first sign today. The flare. The bond. Arcane magic, woven into your blood, has reawakened. You can no longer deny it.”
You stumbled back a step, hand pressing over your chest like you could still feel the thread of it under your skin — humming, burning.
Mattheo was the first to break the silence. His voice came out low, sharp, “So that’s it? I’m supposed to marry her because two dead men thought it was a good idea a thousand years ago?”
He scoffed, disgusted. “Are you all completely mad?”
Dumbledore held up a hand, “For now, I only ask that you both take this seriously. This magic is older than all of us — and it is already in motion.”
You swallowed hard, your voice shaking, “…And what happens if we don’t?”
Dumbledore hesitated — and that alone made your heart stop.
“It is my belief,” he said quietly, looking straight at you, “that if the vow is not fulfilled…you may lose your magic. Possibly… even your life.”
Your breath caught.
No. No, no, no—
Your stomach dropped so hard it felt like you might vomit. Your lungs refused to expand. You barely heard McGonagall calling your name as your knees gave slightly.
Mattheo let out a humorless laugh, “Then let her die for all I care. I’m not marrying her. I don’t care if the whole castle burns down.”
And then he stormed out, slamming the door so hard that several portraits shouted in protest.
You stood frozen, tears burning your eyes. Even though you hadn’t wanted this marriage either, something about his words — how easily he said it — made something inside you crack.
“Am I really going to lose my magic?” you asked in a whisper, “Am I going to die?”
McGonagall was at your side instantly, her hand warm on your back as you began to sob, trying and failing to breathe through the panic.
Your first day as an adult. And already… you’d been sentenced to death.
***
The entrance to the Slytherin common room slithered open with a hiss, the chill of the dungeons seeping into Mattheo’s skin as he stepped inside. The low greenish light cast shadows across the stone walls, the usual scent of damp earth and smoke curling in the air.
“Oi, there he is — the man of the hour,” Blaise called from the corner, lounging on a leather sofa with Theo and a few others scattered around, “Thought you'd get stuck in detention for the rest of your life. Was worth it though — we got to leave class early.”
Mattheo forced a scoff, striding toward them with the practiced swagger he wore like armor, “The old crones are all senile.”
Theo snorted, “What happened anyway? She bumped into you and you lost your mind ‘cause her filthy hands doth not touch the pure skin of Mattheo Riddle?”
A few of the others laughed. Mattheo didn’t. He just dropped into the seat next to Blaise, jaw tight.
“I bumped into her. That’s all.”
Blaise raised an eyebrow, “Bumped into her and what, set off a bloody fireworks show? Draco took four showers to get the Bubotuber pus out of his hair.”
Mattheo’s fingers tightened around his wand, “I said it was nothing.”
But even as the words left his mouth, he could feel it again — a dull tingling in his head, a sharp kind of pain right behind his eyes that made him screw them shut.
He raised his wand, needing a drink of water.
“Accio.” He muttered, aiming at a glass across the room.
A spark of light flickered. The glass wobbled. Then nothing.
Theo blinked, “Mate, what the hell was that? You losing your touch?”
Mattheo frowned, “I’m just tired. Had one of the most bizarre conversations of my life.”
He gripped the wand tighter — too tight — and tried again.
“Accio.”
A more violent spark this time — and then CRACK. The glass shot across the room like a bullet and slammed into the stone wall behind them, shattering into a million pieces. A few people flinched. Someone swore.
Mattheo didn’t look at the shards of glass.
He was staring at his hand.
It was shaking. Barely — just a tremor in his fingers, almost imperceptible — but it was there.
“Mattheo?” Blaise’s voice was cautious now, “You alright?”
Mattheo’s lips parted, but no sound came out.
Something was wrong. It was the way his magic felt. Like it wasn’t entirely his anymore. Like something was tugging on it — pulling threads loose in places he couldn’t see.
He stood abruptly.
“I’m going to bed.”
And without another word, he stalked off toward the dorms, leaving the others exchanging uneasy looks behind him.
***
The warm glow of the Gryffindor common room wrapped around you like a fragile shield as you pushed open the portrait hole. The chatter and laughter of your friends filled the air — Ron sitting cross-legged by the fire, Hermione quietly reading a book, and Harry leaning against the armrest, eyes lifting as you entered.
“(Y/N)!” Hermione’s smile faltered the moment she saw your face, “Are you—?”
But before she could finish, something inside you broke loose. The tight control you’d clung to shattered, and tears spilled unbidden down your cheeks.
You stumbled forward, unable to stop yourself, and Harry was instantly at your side, arms wrapping around you with steady strength. You leaned into him, your body shaking as sobs wracked your frame.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” Harry murmured softly, his voice gentle as the warmth of the fire, “Whatever it is, it’s okay.”
You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. You let the tears fall, the hurt and fear and confusion pooling in your chest and spilling out at last.
Ron and Hermione watched quietly, giving you space, their eyes full of concern but never pressing for answers.
***
The first light of dawn crept faintly through the narrow, green-tinted windows of the Slytherin dormitory, casting long shadows across the cold stone walls. Blaise sat up on the edge of his bed, nudging Mattheo’s shoulder with a lazy, “Oi, Mattheo, time to get up.”
There was no response.
He frowned and gave the shoulder another shove, “Wake up, you bloody tosser, or we’re gonna leave you here.”
Still nothing.
Theo, pulling on his uniform, raised an eyebrow, “He’s out cold or something?”
Blaise frowned deeper, reached out, and gently rolled Mattheo onto his back.
They both froze.
Mattheo’s face was ghostly pale — the usual sharp lines softened, drained of color. His eyes remained shut tight, breathing shallow and uneven.
But it was the dark crimson stains that stole Blaise’s breath — blood soaked the pillow beneath Mattheo’s head, seeping into the white sheets, splattered around the bed like a grim painting. Fresh, vivid, unmistakable.
Blaise’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Fuck… is that blood?”
They leaned closer, horror rising as trickles of dried blood traced haunting paths from his ears, nose, and the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly, Mattheo began to cough — a wet, painful hack that shook his whole body. He tried to sit up but couldn’t. His coughing turned into choking, a gargling, desperate sound as he struggled against the blood flooding his throat.
“Get a professor!” Blaise yelled, panic sharpening his voice.
Theo didn’t hesitate — he bolted from the room, racing through the dungeons to find help.
***
You pushed open the doors to the hospital wing, your heart thudding hard in your chest. Professor McGonagall’s owl had found you at dinner— a curt summons with no explanation, only urgency in the hurried scrawl of her handwriting.
The room was quiet. Too quiet. The soft clinks of vials and the distant rustle of linens were the only sounds as you stepped inside. The smell of antiseptic and iron hit you all at once — sharp, metallic, unmistakable.
Your pace slowed as you spotted them.
McGonagall. Dumbledore. Snape. And Madam Pomfrey.
All gathered around a single hospital bed.
The pit in your stomach grew deeper with every step as you approached.
It wasn’t until you rounded the bed that you saw who lay in it.
Mattheo.
Your breath caught.
He was barely recognizable. Pale — deathly pale — with dark shadows under his eyes and dried blood flaked around his mouth and nose. His usually sharp, arrogant features were slack with exhaustion. Soaked cloths were piled on the table beside him, stained deep crimson. A silver basin sat on the floor, half full with water and flecks of blood.
You stared, frozen, mouth parting in disbelief.
“…What—” Your voice cracked, the word barely a whisper, “What happened to him?”
No one answered at first. Madam Pomfrey wrung out another bloodied cloth and dabbed gently at the side of Mattheo’s mouth. He flinched but didn’t stir.
You looked at McGonagall, your voice harder now, “Professor?”
McGonagall exchanged a glance with Dumbledore, then stepped forward.
Dumbledore sighed quietly, folding his hands before him, “The effects began soon after the vow was unfulfilled.”
Your stomach dropped.
“What?”
“When Mr. Riddle rejected the vow — forcefully — the binding magic retaliated. Violently.” McGonagall said, her voice tight with strain.
You blinked, “Wait — so this is because he said no?”
Snape nodded, eyes cold and grim, “The pact is ancient, arcane, and sentient in its own way. It punishes defiance.”
“And if… if we don’t go through with it?” You asked quietly, the words sticking to your throat like ash, “He’s going to die?”
No one spoke at first.
Then Dumbledore nodded, solemn, “Yes.”
You stared at them, waiting for someone to laugh. To say it was a test or a joke or some horrible misunderstanding.
But they just stood there, faces lined with worry and exhaustion.
Your hands curled into fists.
“So let me get this straight,” You said slowly, your voice rising, “He tells me to drop dead — literally — storms out, acts like I’m some sort of plague, and now I’m supposed to what? Save him? Marry him? Because he decided to spit in the face of something he didn’t understand?”
Snape arched a brow, about to respond, but you cut him off with a sharp shake of your head.
“No. I’m not doing this. He made his choice. He wanted me to die instead. He said it himself — let her die for all I care. So where’s that bravado now, Riddle? Hm?” You looked at him again, still unmoving, still barely clinging to life, “You wanted me gone. So why the hell should I save you?”
No one tried to stop you when you turned and stormed out of the room, fury choking your throat.
But as you stepped into the corridor, just before the doors swung shut behind you, you heard voices behind you — low, urgent.
“…his breath is getting fainter.”
“At this rate, I’m not sure he’ll make it through the night.”
Your steps faltered.
And for a moment — just one — the triumph you thought you’d feel turned into something much heavier.
Like guilt.
Like dread.
But you walked away anyway.
***
The Gryffindor common room was quiet, the fire long since reduced to embers. You sat curled up on the armchair closest to the hearth, knees to your chest, the hem of your pajama pants twisting around your ankles. You hadn't moved in hours.
You couldn’t sleep.
Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see was Mattheo — pale, barely breathing, the blood, the stillness, the weight of it all pressing in around you like a vice.
You told yourself he deserved it.
You told yourself you were right.
But then you remembered the way his lips were tinged blue. The way Madam Pomfrey’s hands shook when she dabbed the blood from his face. The way no one — not even Dumbledore — had been able to hide the fear in their eyes.
And then there was the way your heart had twisted in your chest when you heard them say he might not make it to morning.
It was past midnight now. The castle was silent.
You stood before you could think, arms wrapping around yourself for warmth as you padded barefoot through the corridors, the stone cold beneath your feet. You didn’t even bring a robe. Just your pajama pants and an old sweater. You didn’t care.
You just… had to see him.
The doors to the hospital wing groaned softly as you slipped inside. The lamps had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the rows of beds. Only one of them was occupied.
Mattheo.
“Miss (L/N)?” Came a voice from beside him, but you couldn’t even make eye contact with your professor — your eyes were locked onto the boy lying in the bed, on the verge of death.
He hadn’t moved.
His skin was even paler now, his breathing barely visible beneath the thin blanket draped across his chest. The basin beside the bed had been cleaned, but the faint scent of blood still lingered in the air.
You stood there for a long moment, arms still crossed tightly over your chest.
“I’ll do it.”
The words came out quieter than you expected. Like a secret. Like a surrender.
Your voice trembled as you took a step closer, “I’ll marry him.”
You looked over at McGonagall, throat tight, and nodded.
“I’ll do it,” You said again, “If it’ll stop this. If it’ll save him.”
Dumbledore appeared from the adjoining room, his eyes tired but gentle, “Are you sure, my dear?”
You looked down at Mattheo — at the stubborn furrow in his brow, still etched there even now. At the way he looked like a ghost in his own body.
“No,” You whispered, “But I’d never forgive myself if he died and I knew there was something I could’ve done to stop it.”
“You’re going to have to cast the spell yourself, Miss (L/N),” McGonagall said softly.
You nodded, eyes still locked on Mattheo.
You sat in the chair beside his bed and reached out — slowly, hesitantly — to take his hand.
It was cold.
But you held it anyway.
The silence in the hospital wing was thick — like the room itself was holding its breath.
Mattheo didn’t stir as you sat beside him, his hand heavy and cold in yours. Madam Pomfrey stepped back, her hands clasped tightly. Dumbledore watched you with a strange sorrow in his eyes. McGonagall stood beside him, her expression unreadable. And Snape... Snape looked like he already knew how this would end.
You looked down at Mattheo’s face — pale, drawn, lips parted ever so slightly as he struggled to breathe. If someone had told you a week ago that you’d be holding his hand like this, whispering a marriage vow to save his life, you would’ve laughed in their face.
But now…
You swallowed hard, lifting your wand with your free hand. It shook.
“What do I say?” You whispered.
Dumbledore stepped forward. “Repeat after me. Word for word. The spell will bind your magic, your life force, and your future to his — should he survive the bonding.”
You nodded, your grip tightening around Mattheo’s fingers.
Dumbledore spoke first, slowly and clearly, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”
You repeated it softly, every word a thread stitching itself into the air, “I offer my name, my will, my magic, and my blood…”
“…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”
Your chest ached as the words left you, “…to be bound in life and fate to the heir of Slytherin…”
“…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”
You could barely breathe as you whispered the last line, your throat tight with tears, “…until death unbinds us, or destiny releases us.”
Your wand pulsed with heat.
The tip glowed softly — a deep crimson — and then dimmed as the magic released into Mattheo’s chest in a slow, golden ripple, like sunlight spilling through water.
You felt it then — not a physical tug, but something… inward. A lurch in your core. A sudden pull between your body and his. Like your magic had reached out and fastened itself to his, anchoring to something inside him you couldn’t see.
A soft gasp escaped his lips.
You froze.
Mattheo’s hand twitched.
Then — a cough. Wet. Weak. Painful. His eyes cracked open, red-rimmed and glassy, and they locked onto yours.
“…You?”
His voice was barely a breath. But you heard it. Felt it. And then he passed out again — but this time, his chest rose just a little easier. The color returned, faintly, to his cheeks. The trembling in his hand stilled.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your wand falling to your lap.
It was done.
The pact was sealed.
You were married.
You dropped his hand, a sob racking through your body, “What have I done?”
McGonagall’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, her voice low but steady as she tried to ground you.
“You did something extraordinary tonight,” she said softly, “You saved a life, Miss (L/N). And that is never something to be taken lightly — no matter the circumstances.”
You nodded numbly, eyes fixed on the folds of your pajama sleeve. Your fingers were clenched, digging into the fabric, trying to stop the tremor still moving through you.
You hadn’t let go of the weight of what you’d done — not yet. The spell still lingered in your veins like fire and ice, like a tether. You hadn’t spoken since.
Not until a low, ragged breath tore through the silence.
And then a voice — hoarse, furious:
“What the fuck did you do?”
You froze.
Mattheo.
You turned slowly toward the bed, where he was now sitting upright — or trying to, at least. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his breathing was still shallow, but his eyes were wide and dark with realization. With rage.
He was staring straight at you.
“No,” He muttered, shaking his head like he could undo it just by refusing to believe it, “Tell me you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t go through with it.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just sat there, stunned, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat.
“I—” You tried to speak, but your voice caught.
He swung his legs off the bed, swaying with the effort. His skin was ghostly pale, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.
“You had no fucking right,” He spat, “You just wanted to play the hero — and now I’m the one chained to a decision I didn’t make.”
“Mr. Riddle,” Snape said coolly from across the room, “had she not acted, you would be dead. Is that what you would’ve preferred? That we stand by and let you bleed out?”
Mattheo didn’t even glance at him. His eyes stayed locked on you — like you’d cast the killing curse instead of saving his life.
“You think I should thank you?” He snapped, “You think shackling me to you makes you noble? It doesn’t. It makes you soft. Weak. All of you are fucking insane.”
You flinched like he’d struck you.
The silence that followed stretched taut — unbearable.
And then, barely above a whisper, your voice broke through.
“You’re right.”
Mattheo blinked.
Your hands clenched tighter in your lap, nails digging into your palms, carving crescent moons into your skin.
“I shouldn’t have done anything,” You said, louder now — your voice rising with every word, like something was building, choking you, “I should’ve turned around and walked out of this damn hospital wing. I should’ve let you bleed out, just like you wanted. Would’ve saved us both a lifetime of regret.”
McGonagall called your name — gentle, warning — but you didn’t stop.
“You think it makes me weak?” You hissed, tears blurring your vision, “Fine. Be grateful someone so weak was destined for you. Because no one else would’ve ever willingly bound themselves to you. No one else would’ve looked at what you are — the person you are — and still chosen to save you.”
Mattheo’s glare deepened. His jaw was clenched so tightly you thought his teeth might crack. His hands trembled at his sides — too weak to ball into fists, though you could see him trying.
But you weren’t finished.
“I’m cursing my ancestors for tying me to a monster like you,” You said, standing as you wiped at your face, trying to chase away the tears that refused to stop, “You hate this so much? Then do something about it. Go throw yourself off the Astronomy Tower.”
You paused — your voice cold as ice.
“Then maybe you’ll finally be good for something.”
The room went deathly still.
You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and walked out, each footstep pounding like thunder down the hall, your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sobs clawing their way out of you — fury burning in your chest.
And behind you, no one said a word.
***
The next few weeks at Hogwarts felt like walking on glass.
Despite the long list of grievances — the near-lethal bickering, the glares that could freeze hell over, and the occasional hex cast under the table — there was one thing you and Mattheo Riddle agreed on:
The marriage bond was to remain a secret. Or so help you, you’d Obliviate the entire school.
But silence didn’t mean peace.
In fact, ever since the night in the hospital wing, things had gotten worse.
You’d gone from mutual avoidance to open warfare. The moment your sleeves so much as brushed in a corridor, the air would shift — like the castle itself was bracing for impact. Even the portraits had learned to duck when you passed.
Your professors were at their absolute limit.
McGonagall had nearly taken her hat off in frustration during Transfiguration, and Snape — who normally relished assigning detentions — looked ready to swallow an entire cauldron of Felix Felicis just to avoid your next row.
The problem was: detention didn’t help.
You and Mattheo would just end up arguing behind closed doors. Or worse — he wouldn’t even show up. And if he didn’t show, why the hell should you?
Snape had tried to separate you. McGonagall had tried silent partnering spells. Flitwick had attempted a rotation chart. None of it worked.
Because the truth was simple: You two weren’t combustible. You were already on fire.
And the next explosion was only a matter of time.
It was supposed to be a simple lesson.
“Today, we’ll be practicing small-to-medium object-to-animal transfigurations,” McGonagall announced crisply, the chalk behind her scribbling across the board on its own, “The object must retain its original mass, and the animal must be fully functional.”
You weren’t even looking at Mattheo.
A single brush of shoulders in the corridor was enough to spark full-blown arguments. The professors had resorted to full-on assigned seating just to keep you apart.
Naturally, your desk was at the very front of the room.
And Mattheo’s?
Two rows behind and off to the right.
Far enough to ignore. Close enough to still feel him.
You gritted your teeth and raised your wand.
The matchbox on your desk trembled once — then, with a small pop, sprouted whiskers and legs, fur rippling across the surface like ink in water. It let out a high-pitched squeak and bolted.
Right off your desk.
The mouse-thing tore across the floor, weaving between desks like a heat-seeking missile until—
It launched itself onto Mattheo’s parchment, knocking over his inkpot and scrabbling up his sleeve.
His reaction was instant.
Mattheo shot to his feet, chair crashing backward with a loud bang, “Are you fucking serious?”
You stood too, wand half-raised, “It was an accident!”
“Every spell you cast ends up ruining lives,” He snapped, voice like shattered glass, “Why should today be any different?”
The class froze, eyes darting between the two of you.
Blaise’s jaw tightened. Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. Even Ron glanced nervously toward McGonagall, who remained impassive but clearly tense.
Your throat tightened like a vice.
“You’re one to talk about ruining lives,” You spat, stepping forward, heat flashing under your skin, “Next time I’ll let your skull hit the floor and see how noble I feel.”
“Oh, I’m the mess?” He scoffed, closing the distance, “I’m not the one who decided to play God—”
“You’re right. You’re not capable of caring about anyone but yourself.”
His eyes flashed, “I’d rather Avada myself than give a shit about you.”
“Do us both a favour and go ahead, Riddle!”
Your wand was in your hand before you even realized it.
“I swear to Merlin—”
Mattheo’s wand was already raised, aimed directly at you, “Do it. Go on. Every Gryffindor dreams of taking out a Riddle. Let’s see if you’ve got the nerve. Put me out of my fucking misery.”
“ENOUGH!”
McGonagall’s voice cracked through the room like lightning.
With a single flick of her wand, both of yours went flying — clattering across the stone floor.
She strode forward, every inch of her trembling with fury.
Neither of you said a word.
“Outside. Now.”
You turned first, jaw clenched tight. Mattheo followed a beat later, shoulders stiff with rage.
And as the door slammed shut behind you, you both stormed off in opposite directions, breaths ragged — not looking at each other. Not speaking.
But the silence buzzed louder than any scream.
Because neither of you said it aloud. But in that moment, you both knew: Something was going to break soon.
And it wouldn’t be the bond.
It would be you.
***
Snape had been more successful than usual at keeping you both apart during lessons. Your workbenches were set far, far away from each other, and all the tools and ingredients you’d need were already placed before class began. While it was completely unlike him, Snape had gone through the painstaking effort of making sure you’d never have to leave your bench—and thus wouldn’t run into each other.
Mattheo was halfway through slicing the stubborn boomslang skin when the knife slipped from his fingers. A curse barely whispered under his breath. He glanced down at the thin line of blood trickling from a cut on his palm.
“Are you bleeding?” Lorenzo’s voice cut through the quiet classroom, unexpectedly loud.
The noise struck you like a jolt to the chest. Your heart hammered in your ribs, and without thinking, you whipped your head around, eyes scanning the room in sudden panic.
For a moment, your breath caught in your throat. Was he sick again? Coughing up blood like last time? Was he hurt worse than before? Why? You had cast the spell, fulfilled the vow. Why was he bleeding? Was it because your magic was wearing off? Were you losing your magic?
Mattheo caught your frantic gaze from across the room. His brow furrowed as he watched the flicker of worry on your pale face—completely out of place among the usual sharp barbs you threw his way.
Why are you looking at me like that? his eyes seemed to ask.
You looked away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek. Your gaze flicked over his form, lingering briefly on the wound in his hand. Slowly, you sank back onto your stool, exhaling shakily when Harry leaned toward you with a concerned, “Are you okay?”
You just shook your head, forcing a faint smile. Nothing worth mentioning.
Mattheo’s confusion deepened.
He glanced once more at his bleeding palm, then back at you, narrowing his eyes.
The same person who tells me to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower is worried when I bleed?
A sardonic smirk tugged at his lips—bitter and cold. Pathetic, he thought. She’s weaker than I thought.
He shook his head, muttering under his breath, “Hilarious.”
***
The dormitory was quiet, the other girls already asleep — or pretending to be. You lay motionless in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the moonlight tracing pale lines across your blanket.
It was the stillness that made it unbearable. No shouting, no clashing wands, no chaos to hide behind — just the raw, aching silence where your thoughts had nowhere to go but inward.
Your fingers curled in the sheets, heart leaden in your chest.
You’d read about soulbonds. You’d studied the magic. You understood the implications.
But knowing something intellectually wasn’t the same as feeling it. It wasn't the same as feeling that familiar tug in your soul whenever he was around. Not even affection, just recognition. Because deep down, his soul was yours now, and yours belonged to him.
Your husband.
Could you ever fall in love with someone else? Could you be touched, kissed, adored by anyone else without this bond protesting? Could you ever stand before another person in a white dress and vow yourself to them, when somewhere, in the deepest part of your soul, you were already tied to Mattheo Riddle?
Was this all your life was going to amount to? Would you ever be able to have children? A family?
Your chest tightened, a quiet grief building behind your ribs — not because you wanted him, but because now you might never get to choose.
Not really.
Not freely.
You turned to face the wall, eyes burning.
You hadn’t even wanted this. You had only done what was necessary. You’d cast the spell. You’d saved his life. You’d paid the price. And now the rest of your life might not be yours to live.
***
Mattheo slammed the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frame. His dorm was dim and cool, shadows sprawling over the stone walls like claws. He paced across the room like a caged animal, rage simmering just beneath his skin.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt his soul reach out of his body, looking for his other half. His magic was writhing in protest—one part of him aching to return to his wife, the other wishing the bond had never been forged at all."
He grabbed a book off his desk and hurled it at the wall. It hit with a loud thud, scattering parchment.
No.
He wasn’t going to be tied to this. He wasn’t going to be one of those cursed bastards in old fairy tales, shackled to a girl because of some ancient, romanticised magic.
It wasn’t fair.
You weren't fair. Always so self-righteous. Always so brave, so noble. Like you were above it all. Like saving him meant you got to own his future.
He sneered, dragging a hand through his hair.
He’d go out with someone else tomorrow — hell, two people, maybe. Just to prove it meant nothing. Just to remind himself that he still had a choice. That no invisible string could dictate who he was or who he wanted to touch.
And if some part of his chest felt heavy beneath that anger — if his stomach clenched at the memory of you going pale with concern, like you cared about him — well, he wasn’t going to fucking think about that.
Mattheo pulled off his school robes with more force than necessary and threw himself onto his bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.
This was just magic.
He didn’t believe in fate.
***
The greenhouse was muggy and buzzing with low conversation, the scent of damp moss and pollen thick in the air. You were partnered with Hermione — thankfully — while Mattheo was stationed several tables away, buried in a hushed conversation with Theodore and Lorenzo.
It should’ve made you feel safe — that distance — but your skin still prickled every time someone said his name. Every time he laughed like nothing between you had cracked wide open.
Professor Sprout bustled through the rows of tables, cheerfully guiding everyone toward the trays of unmarked magical plants, “Careful, class — some of these are… temperamental. I want you to handle them gently. We provoke nothing, understood?”
You nodded absently. Beside you, Hermione was flipping through her textbook, muttering classifications under her breath. Somewhere behind you, Mattheo’s voice filtered through the noise — low, unmistakable. Like smoke curling through your awareness.
You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.
Your soul already knew he was there. You could feel him. Feel his magic.
And it was driving you insane.
Your eyes scanned your workstation, landing on a thick-stemmed plant with curling, faintly shimmering leaves. It looked harmless. Almost pretty. Distracted, your hand reached toward it—
“Wait—!” Hermione started, too late.
The plant struck fast. Its leaves snapped open like jaws, revealing rows of tiny, sharp teeth.
You flinched back—
But not fast enough.
A hand caught your wrist and yanked.
Mattheo’s grip was unrelenting as he dragged you away from the plant’s snapping maw. The force of it knocked you into him, your chest colliding with his shoulder.
The scent of mint, smoke, and fresh grass hit you like a punch to the gut.
You froze.
Mattheo didn’t look at you. His hand stayed firm around your wrist, holding it up like it had personally offended him. His eyes were locked on the plant, jaw tight.
“For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, low and sharp, “Fancy losing an arm, do you?”
Your jaw clenched, “I didn’t ask you to—”
But your voice faltered.
Because your skin was touching.
And the moment it did, the air around you pulsed.
Raw magic cracked through the greenhouse like thunder. The floor trembled beneath your feet. Pots exploded. Vines twisted violently from their containers. One of the plants let out a shriek that made your bones vibrate.
Professor Sprout spun around, eyes wide, “What in Merlin’s name—?!”
Students shouted and scrambled back, clutching their wands as chaos erupted.
“Bloody hell,” Theo muttered somewhere to your right.
The plant that had nearly taken your hand shattered its entire pot in a final, violent explosion — soil and ceramic fragments flying.
And in the middle of it all, Mattheo did the last thing anyone would’ve expected.
He didn’t let go.
He pulled you closer.
One arm locked tight around your waist as he turned into you, shielding your body with his own like it was instinct. His back took the brunt of it — shards of ceramic and clumps of dirt pelting his robes and shoulders as the pot burst behind you.
You couldn’t breathe.
For one suspended second, the rest of the world vanished — the screaming vines, the spells, the panic. All you could hear was your heartbeat pounding in your ears.
Mattheo’s jaw was clenched, his eyes still fixed forward.
But his grip told you everything you didn’t want to understand.
Then, almost as if realizing what caused the chaos — who caused it — his body tensed even more. And suddenly, he let go like he’d touched flame.
You stepped back just as quickly, as though the heat between you hadn’t seared itself into your skin.
The distance snapped back into place.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t even glance at you. Just turned on his heel, stalking back to his workstation with his robes covered in dirt, hair mussed, and jaw tight — like nothing had happened.
But something had.
You watched him go, eyes falling to the soil on his back from where he’d pulled you close.
Then you looked away.
Neither of you spoke of it — not to each other, not to anyone else. But under your breath, the bond whispered what you both refused to say:
Husband. Wife.
And the magic remembered.
***
The steps up to the Astronomy Tower were slick with night dew, the stone worn smooth beneath Mattheo’s boots. The sky was a deep navy above them, scattered with stars, and the wind tugged at their robes as he and his friends climbed — Theo, Blaise, Draco, and Lorenzo trailing behind, their laughter low and easy.
“If we get caught, I’m throwing you all under the bus,” Draco huffed, “Making me leave my silk sheets for a smoke. I don’t even smoke! We’re not girlfriends going to the toilets together — why do I have to be here?”
Mattheo barely heard him.
They were nearing the final bend of the stairwell when he stopped short, his hand shooting out to halt Blaise mid-step.
“What—?” Blaise started, frowning.
Mattheo didn’t answer. His head tilted, brows drawing tight.
A voice floated down the stairs.
Yours.
The wind nipped at your cheeks, but you didn’t mind. It was quiet up here — calm — and that was rare these days.
You sat cross-legged on the ledge, a Chocolate Frog wrapper fluttering beside you. Harry leaned nearby, arms folded against the cold, chewing on a Bertie Bott’s bean with an expression like he’d swallowed a lemon.
He spat the offending thing over the ledge.
“Haz!” You exclaimed, grinning, “Was that dirt-flavored?”
“Vomit!” He cried, chugging his hot chocolate — and immediately burning his tongue, “Oh Merlin—hell—it was vomit-flavored!”
You burst into laughter — a belly-deep kind of laugh, bright and contagious, ringing through the tower like wind chimes in summer. And something about it hit Mattheo like a punch to the ribs. It flared through him like wildfire, warm and sickening and wrong. He didn’t know why it mattered. He didn’t care.
He shouldn’t care.
Harry blinked, turning to look at you — really look, “There’s that smile.”
You tilted your head.
He smiled, “Haven’t seen you smile like that in weeks.”
You grinned, “Really says something about your joke-telling, doesn’t it, Haz?”
He scoffed, bumping your shoulder, “You only laugh when I’m in pain.”
“Seriously though,” He said, softer this time, “What’s going on with you lately?”
You tried to play innocent, “What do you mean?”
He gave you a look, “Don’t do that. You know what I mean. What’s going on with you and Riddle?”
Mattheo’s lungs went tight.
“It’s very hard for you to hate someone, (Y/N),” Harry continued, “I should know. Despite everything those snakes do, you still manage to stay cordial with Berkshire and Zabini.”
“But you,” Harry said, nodding at you, “you’re practically on the verge of murder when Riddle walks into a room. What did he do to piss you off that badly?”
You sighed, shoulders sagging, “He’s an ass.”
Harry didn’t argue.
“He’s rude, arrogant, violent… thinks the world owes him something.” You paused, chewing your lip, “But the more I think about it… the more I feel like I owe him an apology.”
Mattheo’s pulse stuttered. His jaw clenched. He didn’t know why he was still standing there. Why hadn’t he turned around? Why were his feet not moving?
But his heart was pounding.
Harry blinked, “You? Apologize to Mattheo Riddle?”
“I know,” You groaned, resting your head against Harry’s shoulder, sipping your hot chocolate, “It sounds insane. And he’s still awful. He says the nastiest things and looks at me like I’ve ruined his life.”
“I hope there’s a but coming or I’m taking you to St. Mungo’s for a psych evaluation.”
You laughed softly.
“But,” You admitted, “I think I was wrong too. I didn’t ask for any of this… but neither did he.”
Silence. Just the wind and the sound of distant owls.
“He’d be lucky to get an apology from you,” Harry said finally, “But if he throws it in your face, I’ll hex his eyebrows off.”
From the stairwell, Mattheo turned without a word, brushing past the others. His expression unreadable. His hands clenched.
“Mate?” Lorenzo whispered.
Mattheo didn’t respond.
He lit a cigarette with a flick of his wand, the smoke curling from his lips as his eyes fixed on nothing.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” he muttered. “This spot’s taken.”
***
The courtyard was cold and quiet, moonlight catching in puddles across the cobblestones. Mattheo walked fast, hands buried in his coat pockets, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His friends trailed behind, boots scuffing against wet stone, all of them exchanging looks like they were watching a wounded animal pace in circles.
“So,” Blaise drawled, jogging to catch up, “you gonna tell us why you just froze like you saw a bloody Dementor?”
Mattheo didn’t look at him, “Didn’t.”
“You did,” Theo said, grinning, “I thought you’d been Petrified for a second. And then just stood there. Listening.”
Mattheo exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking.
“Oh, come on,” Draco groaned, dragging his feet, “You stopped us cold like you’d been hit with a Stunning Spell. And then just stood there listening to Potter, of all people, like he was singing you a bloody lullaby.”
Mattheo scowled, “He was being loud.”
“Oh yeah, loud enough to make your heart stop apparently,” Blaise said, his grin growing, “Or—oh, wait—was it her voice that got you all twitchy?”
They all knew it was you that had him pausing. It was obvious, but they wanted to stretch this out as long as possible.
Draco made a scandalized noise, “Was that what it was? Is little Matty catching feelings?”
Mattheo shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel, “Don’t call me that.”
“She said she owed him an apology,” Lorenzo sang, clutching his heart, making the others guffaw, “Oh, their lovers’ tiff finally coming to an end.”
“She also called him an ass, arrogant, violent, and someone who thinks the world owes him something,” Blaise added helpfully.
“Sounds like foreplay to me.” Theo commented.
Mattheo didn’t dignify that with a response. He took another drag off his cigarette and kept walking.
“You’re acting weird.” Theo called after him.
“You’re acting like she matters.” Lorenzo added.
“She doesn’t.” Mattheo said coolly.
Blaise snorted, “You stood there for ten minutes listening to a private conversation. Be serious.”
“She was loud." Mattheo repeated.
“You’re deflecting.”
“I’m leaving.”
Mattheo threw a middle finger over his shoulder without turning around.
***
Your conversation with Harry had left you with one undeniable truth: you owed Mattheo a long-overdue apology.
The more you thought about it, the more you realized how ambushed he must’ve felt—going from dying to waking up magically bound to a girl he didn’t even like. If you were in his position, you would’ve been upset too.
'I probably wouldn’t have said he should’ve died… and I definitely would’ve reacted differently after learning he saved my life, but I digress.' You thought, gathering up your books as you prepared to leave the library.
It was almost curfew, and you didn’t need another reason to land yourself in detention. At the rate you were going, expulsion was starting to feel like a real possibility. Yet another reason to apologize to Mattheo and smooth things over.
The only issue? You couldn’t seem to actually apologize.
Not for lack of trying—you’d made several attempts—but every time, you froze. Mattheo was always surrounded by his friends, who, you were fairly sure, still didn’t know about your secret. And even when he was alone, you’d chicken out—whether out of pride or the fear that another argument would explode before you got the words out.
As you made your way toward the exit, your eyes caught on a familiar figure hunched over a table.
Mattheo Riddle. Asleep, head down on his Charms essay.
He was alone. Relaxed.
This was probably the best time to say something, you thought. But just as you reached out to touch his shoulder, you paused. Would he be the type to bite your head off for waking him?
Instead, you slowly sank into the seat beside him and decided to wait until he woke up.
So this is my husband, you thought, eyes scanning his face. His dark curls fell over his forehead, brushing his nose and making him scrunch it every few seconds with an unconscious little sniffle. You almost reached out to brush them away before stopping yourself, opting to lean your cheek against the table instead, so you could get a better look.
He was handsome—no denying that. Of course, that was only when his face wasn’t twisted in a scowl or a sneer aimed at you.
Thick lashes fluttered against his cheeks. A scar ran across his nose—one he’d gotten during a fight back in fourth year. You still remembered the chaos of that week, how everyone buzzed with gossip, applauding his opponent for landing a permanent mark on the Slytherin prince.
Your heart clenched at the memory. People had cheered over him getting hurt?
That didn’t seem right. Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his kindness either. Maybe that was why.
You sighed, letting your eyes drift closed, lulled by the soft scratching of quills and the low crackle of the fireplace. Your breathing began to slow, your body relaxing next to his.
A few minutes later, Mattheo stirred.
His eyes opened slowly—and the first thing he saw was you. Sleeping beside him. Peaceful. Your face mere inches from his own.
He didn’t move at first, just stared.
You looked so calm… so soft. Your lips slightly parted, lashes brushing your cheeks. His gaze moved to where your hands nearly touched on the table. His pinky brushed against yours, and at the contact, something warm bloomed inside him—like drinking something hot and sweet on a cold day.
Then, from the spot where your skin touched, golden butterflies began to shimmer and rise. They floated gently up, delicate and radiant, then dissolved into glittering dust that rained over the two of you like pixie dust.
It was in that moment your eyes began to flutter open, the warmth rushing through you, tugging you gently back to consciousness.
You met his gaze—those deep, stormy eyes lit with gold, reflecting the butterflies as they danced around you.
Silence fell over the moment, thick and delicate like a spun sugar spell.
“I’m sorry,” You whispered, your voice barely audible, “For everything.”
His eyes softened, “I know. I’m sorry too.”
You slowly pushed your hand closer, not quite holding his, just letting your fingers rest against his—craving his touch a little longer.
***
The corridors were bathed in shadows as you crept beside Mattheo, the glow of torches casting golden light across the stone walls. It was past curfew—well past—and your shoes squeaked louder than you wanted with every step.
Your hand still tingled from where it had touched his. You tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about the butterflies, or the way his voice had softened when he told you he was sorry, too.
Mattheo was walking close—too close—but neither of you said anything. His shoulder brushed yours once, and both of you stiffened like you’d been hit with a jolt of electricity.
“This is such a bad idea,” You whispered, glancing behind you, “We’re going to get caught.”
“Then move quicker.” Mattheo muttered, though you could hear the smirk in his voice.
You rounded a corner—and froze.
Footsteps.
You both ducked into the nearest alcove, pressing into the shadows. Filch’s voice echoed down the hallway, muttering about rule-breakers and “ruffling Mrs. Norris’ feathers”—which didn’t even make sense, because she was a cat.
You were both holding your breath, your back against the wall, Mattheo right in front of you. Too close again. His hand twitched, like he was going to reach for you, steady you—
You shuffled back with a hissed whisper, “Don’t touch me!”
His brows rose, and you could see his smirk even in the dark, “Why? Scared I’ll bite?”
“No,” You snapped, “I’m scared if you touch me, this entire corridor is going to light up like a bloody fireworks show.”
His grin faltered. A flicker of remembrance crossed his face—the butterflies, the sparkles, the magic. That same electricity was crackling between you now, humming beneath your skin like the promise of a storm.
“…Right.” He muttered, glancing away.
You both fell silent, pressed against your opposing walls, hands braced against the stone, breaths so shallow so that your chests wouldn't brush. Filch’s footsteps faded down another corridor.
When it was safe, you stepped out of the alcove. Mattheo followed—quieter now.
As you reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, you paused, blinking. Mattheo had followed you all the way there—even though the Slytherin common room was in the opposite direction. He clearly knew that, with the way he was now standing still, waiting as you whispered your password and the portrait swung open.
You turned around to find him watching you with an unreadable expression.
“Goodnight, Mattheo.”
A beat of silence. Then, “Goodnight, (Y/N).”
“Get back safe, yeah?”
He chuckled, “Should be easy without you jumping at every bloody sound.”
You let out a soft huff of a laugh, offering him a small smile before stepping through the portrait hole. It closed behind you with a gentle thud.
The Fat Lady raised an eyebrow and smiled down at Mattheo, “Someone’s in love.”
He scoffed, “Don’t be daft.”
“Tell that to the lovesick grin on your face.”
It was only then he realised he was smiling. And that his heart hadn’t quite stopped racing.
Fuck.
***
The Astronomy Tower was quieter than usual, the moonlight casting soft shadows across the stone floor. You’d come up for some air, textbook in hand, hoping the cool night would lull you into drowsiness. It hadn’t.
You didn’t expect company—not at this hour, anyway.
“Merlin’s sake,” A voice drawled from the stairs, “why are you always here?”
You looked up to find Mattheo Riddle squinting at you, cigarette already between his lips, brows raised like you were the one interrupting him.
“I could ask you the same thing.” You shot back.
“I asked first.”
“And I’m ignoring you first.”
He scoffed, “Hilarious. You think you’re so clever.”
You shrugged, eyes drifting back to your book, “You can smoke here if you want. I don’t mind.”
You expected him to roll his eyes and leave—maybe mutter something smug under his breath. But he surprised you by stepping forward instead.
He moved to sit on your right, but you quickly lifted your hand and waved him off, “Not there. Sit on my left.”
He blinked, “What? Why?”
You gestured lazily at the breeze wafting through the open arches, “Wind’s blowing that way. I’d rather not get a face full of your lung rot.”
Mattheo rolled his eyes but, to your mild surprise, moved without argument, settling beside you with a muttered, “Bossy.”
You ignored that, flipping a page in your book.
He caught sight of the title and groaned, “Please tell me you’re not actually doing homework at midnight.”
You gave him a small smile, “Can’t sleep. Figured reading this would bore me enough to pass out.”
He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, “Suppose that’s one way to do it.”
Silence fell for a moment—not uncomfortable, just quiet. Then, casually, you said, “I didn’t expect to see you in the library the other day. Didn't think you knew where it was.”
He smirked, “Charms essay’s due Monday. Figured I’d get it out of the way early.”
“That’s… surprisingly responsible of you.”
“Well,” He shrugged, “I’m going to that Hufflepuff thing by the Black Lake on Sunday. Didn’t fancy writing it hungover.”
You nodded, “Right. Forgot that was happening.”
Mattheo glanced at you, curious, “You’re not going?”
You shook your head, “Nah. Can’t swim. Bit pointless standing around while everyone else is diving in.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, quietly—almost too quietly—he said, “You should go anyway.”
You turned to look at him.
The moonlight lit up the edge of his face, the glow catching in his curls and the smoke curling from his lips. His eyes were on the sky now, not on you.
"Maybe I will."
***
The party at the Black Lake was in full swing by the time you arrived with your friends. You wore a hoodie over your swimsuit, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses perched on your nose, and your hair pulled back into a lazy bun that still somehow looked effortlessly good.
You hadn’t even planned on swimming—you just wanted to be out, feel the sun, maybe dip your feet into the water. You hadn’t thought twice about who else might be there.
Until you saw him.
Mattheo.
He was already waist-deep in the lake, surrounded by a cluster of Slytherins and a few Ravenclaws, laughing at something Theo said, water glistening on his shoulders. You weren’t looking at him. Not really.
You were looking in his direction.
At least that's what you told yourself.
You peeled off your hoodie as you neared the shore, tying it loosely around your waist before sitting at the rocky edge. Your legs dipped into the cool water, toes wiggling beneath the surface. You laughed at Ron and Harry as they cannonballed into the lake, sending up twin waves that splashed a few nearby Hufflepuffs. Hermione plopped down beside you with a fond eye roll, choosing to keep you company rather than swim—knowing full well you couldn’t.
And that was when Mattheo noticed you.
It was subtle—just a pause in his sentence, the flick of his eyes toward the shoreline. His laughter dimmed, something warm rushing through him despite the chill of the lake. Like sunlight breaking through glass.
Theo cracked another joke that made the group laugh again, but Mattheo didn’t join in. His eyes flicked back to you. Not obviously—just every few seconds. Like he couldn’t help it.
Like he was trying to figure out when the hell he started noticing the curve of your hips, the way your skin shimmered slightly from sun lotion, or how the sunlight kissed the top of your cheekbones.
And you?
You didn’t look at him once.
At one point, you stretched your arms back behind you, tilted your head toward the sun, letting it soak into your skin. Just for a moment. And when you sat back up, your eyes flickering over the lake to find him again.
Mattheo was gone.
Underwater.
Fully disappeared.
He resurfaced a few seconds later, farther out now—like he’d needed to cool off, or distract himself, or maybe just stop thinking.
You pulled your legs out of the water and wandered off with Hermione to get something to drink, tossing your hair over your shoulder as you left.
He watched the whole time.
*
You had just stepped away from Hermione to grab another drink, the sun warm on your skin, the breeze tugging at the hem of your hoodie where it clung to your still-damp legs. You didn’t even register the footsteps behind you until it was too late.
“Come on!” Someone called—a Hufflepuff boy you vaguely recognized from Charms, “You haven’t even been in the water yet!”
Your eyes widened, “Wait—”
And then you were airborne.
You hit the lake with a splash, the cold shocking through your bones, clamping around your lungs. Panic seized your chest like a vice.
Your arms flailed, legs kicking uselessly. You bobbed to the surface once—twice—each time barely catching breath before slipping under again. Your hands slapped helplessly at the water’s surface.
And then—
Strong arms. A chest against your back. That comfort and warmth that spread through you almost immediately that made you want to melt.
Mattheo.
You realized it only as you were pulled above water again, his arms locked around your waist as he powered you toward the shore. He dragged you up onto the rocks like you weighed nothing, water cascading off both of you.
You collapsed to the stone, coughing violently, lake water pouring from your mouth as your lungs fought to breathe.
Mattheo was crouched beside you, one arm bracing your back to keep you upright.
But there were no butterflies. No sparks. No golden shimmer between you.
Just him. You. And that familiar warmth pulsing in your chest.
Someone stepped forward, reaching to help—maybe the boy who’d thrown you in.
Mattheo saw red.
He grabbed the outstretched hand and shoved it away, his voice sharp and venomous, “Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
The guy froze mid-step.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Mattheo snarled.
“It—it was just a joke! She wasn’t even that far out—”
“She can’t fucking swim, you twat!”
Silence rippled across the party. Heads turned. All eyes on you.
Mattheo glared at the boy like he wanted to throw him in and hold him down. He hadn’t moved his arm from your back. “Watch your back.” He growled.
You reached up with a shaking hand and pressed your palm to his chest.
“Mattheo—hey—” You rasped, still hoarse, lungs raw, “Calm down. It was an accident.”
His eyes dropped to yours, his jaw clenched tight. Slowly, his expression softened.
He brushed a soaked strand of hair from your cheek, voice lower now, “You alright? Do you need to see Madam Pomfrey?”
You shook your head, “Don’t be such a worrywart. I’ll be fine.”
He let out a slow breath, something cracking open in his chest at the sight of you like that—drenched, shivering, eyes still wide with shock.
“I’ve got you.” He whispered.
And that’s when it hit you.
There was no magic reacting between you. No sparks. No glow. No reminder of your bond.
Maybe it was because you felt the pull without it. The weight of his hand on your back, the panic in his voice, the fury in his eyes when you were in danger.
Before, the magic needed to show you. To remind you your souls were tied together.
Now?
You already knew.
You stared your hand on his chest for a second. “There’s no spark.” You murmured.
Mattheo just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes, “We don’t need one.”
***
You were wrapped in a blanket by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, a warm mug in your hands, now fresh out of the shower and in warm clothing, when Hermione sat beside you with a look. Ron and Harry flanked your other side like they were forming an intervention.
Hermione’s eyes narrowed, “Alright. Spill.”
You blinked innocently, “Spill what?”
“Don’t play dumb,” Ron said, “You nearly drowned and he pulled you out like bloody Prince Charming—”
“—and then threatened to murder a Hufflepuff on your behalf.” Hermione added.
Harry leaned forward, “You two have been fighting for weeks and now he’s—what? Your personal lifeguard?”
You shrugged, sipping your cocoa, “He was there. It’s not that deep.”
“Not that deep?” Hermione echoed, “He carried you out of the lake like it was a scene from Pride and Prejudice.”
Ron frowned, “You were holding his hand. Voluntarily.”
You pulled the blanket tighter, “I almost died, Ronald. Excuse me for not being picky about which hands I grabbed.”
Hermione still looked skeptical, “(Y/N) he literally called you his wife. There's something you're not telling us. Next we're going to find out that you're married and have 3 kids.”
You choked on your drink, “Excuse me?!”
“You heard me,” She repeated, smug now, “You’re blushing.”
“Because I'm cold! Because an idiot threw me in the lake and I almost died!” You declared, indignant.
“You’re a terrible liar.” Harry muttered.
***
Meanwhile, in the Slytherin dungeons, Mattheo was toweling off his hair, clearly having just changed out of his soaked clothes, when Theo, Draco, Enzo, and Blaise all rounded on him.
“So,” Draco said casually, “You gonna explain why you went full bloody Gryffindor with that dive and rescue?”
Mattheo didn’t look up, “She can’t swim.”
“Yeah, we gathered that,” Blaise said, “but most people don’t growl at the guy who pushed her in like they’re about to duel him at dawn.”
Enzo snorted, “You literally threatened the bloke who threw her in. I reckon he started crying because he doesn’t want the infamous Mattheo Riddle to rearrange his face.”
Mattheo tossed his towel aside and flopped onto his bed, “He’s lucky I didn’t drown him.”
“Oh, he’s in deep,” Theo laughed, “Pun intended.”
“Funny.” Mattheo muttered.
“Look,” Blaise said, “if you like her—”
“I don’t.”
All four blinked at him.
Mattheo sat up, “I said I don’t like her. End of.”
Enzo raised a brow, smirking, “Right. Because you just protect every girl and call her your wife like it’s nothing.”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched, “It was a slip of the tongue. Nothing more.”
Theo added, “Didn’t even flirt with anyone at the party.”
“I wasn’t in the mood.”
Draco smirked, “He didn’t want to flirt with anyone else besides his wife, guys. This is adorable.”
But Mattheo had already stopped listening to them.
He stared at his hand.
No magic.
But definitely a spark.
***
Hogsmeade looked completely different when you were on your own, with no distractions from friends pulling you along. Your eyes wandered over the little town, taking in all the unusual shops you’d never visited before.
A familiar voice cut through your thoughts.
“Wow, wandering Hogsmeade alone, huh? That’s kinda sad, (L/N).”
You frowned, “Well, Hermione and Ron are on a date, Harry and Ginny are on a date, so I have no one else to keep me company. I would’ve been on a date myself, if someone hadn’t declared me his wife in front of the entire student body.”
That was true. You’d planned to go out with a cute Ravenclaw from your year—but he’d bailed last minute. Didn’t say why, but you knew. It was because of Mattheo’s declaration, and how he’d practically threatened the boy who’d thrown you in the lake. Not just that, girls kept coming up to you, apologizing for flirting with Mattheo, not knowing you were—something. You had to firmly deny it. You weren’t dating Mattheo Riddle. Not at all. You were secretly married, bound eternally by your ancestors. But dating? No way.
Mattheo’s brow raised as he stepped beside you, “You had a date?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Is that a problem now? You didn’t seem to mind chasing after anyone in a skirt before.”
“That was before.”
“Before what?” You pressed.
He hesitated. A beat passed.
Then another.
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
Your brows furrowed, “Sounds like it matters to me.”
His throat bobbed, “Does it?”
Your breath caught. This was the moment. Say it. Say you care. Say you feel it too.
“…I don’t know,” You whispered, “Does it? To you?”
Mattheo looked at you, really looked at you—and for a split second, the truth shone in his eyes. The thing he wanted to say.
“Forget it.”
Your chest sank.
“Right.”
You let out a small breath, softer now, “Thanks, by the way, for saving me that day. I meant to say it sooner.”
Without waiting for a reply, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.
Then you turned and walked away, heart pounding, leaving the words hanging between you.
***
You stepped nervously into the office, the heavy door clicking softly shut behind you. Professor McGonagall sat poised behind her desk, her expression unreadable—but not unkind. Dumbledore reclined slightly in his chair, hands folded, his twinkling eyes settling on you both with quiet intent.
“Please, have a seat.” McGonagall said crisply.
You obeyed, heart hammering, and slid into the chair beside Mattheo.
“We’ve noticed a... shift between the two of you,” Dumbledore began, his voice gentle and measured, “From frequent discord to something far more... cooperative.”
McGonagall nodded, “It appears you’re managing your circumstances with considerably more maturity than when this began.”
You swallowed, “Yes, Professor. We’re trying.”
I’m actually falling in love with the person who tried to curse me to death not too long ago, if that’s what you mean by maturity.
Mattheo shifted beside you—silent but steady. His presence grounded you, even as tension lingered in the air. You kept your hands clasped tightly in your lap.
“As you're aware,” Dumbledore continued, “this bond you share is highly unusual, and it will require careful thought and handling. We wanted to begin a conversation about what the future might look like.”
McGonagall leaned forward slightly, her gaze steady, “We’re speaking not only of the magical implications, but also the emotional and academic ones. Your lives are going to be affected by this, one way or another.”
Dumbledore offered a soft chuckle, “But know this—you’re not alone. We’re here to support you both, in any way we can. That is why we asked you here.”
McGonagall added, “Think of this as the beginning of an open conversation. A safe space to ask questions or raise concerns—without judgment.”
You glanced at Mattheo. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, but he met your gaze.
Then McGonagall continued, carefully, “It’s important to consider all possibilities. Including how you might feel about the idea of... other partners.”
Your breath hitched. Your gaze flicked to Mattheo.
He didn’t speak. But his jaw clenched. His shoulders stiffened.
Other partners?
When this began, you’d imagined—hoped, maybe—that someday you could fall in love with someone else. That the bond wouldn’t define your life. That maybe this could just be something you learned to live with... and move on from.
But it had never occurred to you that Mattheo might have thought the same.
Your stomach twisted. The idea of him with someone else—smiling at them the way he sometimes looked at you when he didn’t think you were watching—sent a sharp pang through your chest. Laughing with someone else. Touching them. Loving them.
No. You didn’t want that.
Dumbledore’s gaze softened. “Unfortunately, despite our efforts to investigate the depth of your bond, we still don’t fully understand all the implications. Which is why it’s best to be prepared. Bonds like yours... they can be complex.”
You nodded mutely, eyes fixed on your hands. A heavy ache bloomed in your chest—low and insistent. You weren’t ready to imagine a future where he wasn’t yours.
Even if you were never truly his.
***
You left the office in silence.
Neither of you spoke as you walked down the spiraling staircase, the echo of your footsteps louder than anything else. The corridor was quiet, dim with late-afternoon shadows filtering through tall windows. But the silence between you was deafening.
Mattheo’s hands were shoved deep into his pockets, his jaw tight. You kept your eyes ahead, refusing to let him see the storm behind yours.
Other partners.
The words echoed like a curse. The ache in your chest hadn’t faded—it had only sunk deeper. You didn’t know what was worse: the idea of loving someone who didn’t feel the same… or the thought of watching him fall for someone else.
Then, just as you turned a corner, Mattheo stopped walking.
“So,” He said stiffly, gaze still fixed on the stone floor, “you ever think about it?”
You blinked, “Think about what?”
He didn’t look at you. His voice was low, carefully neutral, “Moving on. Being with someone else.”
Your heart skipped. You stared at him, caught off guard, “I—I don’t know. I did… at the beginning. When all of this felt like a curse.”
He nodded, slow and almost imperceptible.
You hesitated, “What about you? Have you thought about being with someone else?”
A pause. Longer than it needed to be.
His jaw flexed, “I don’t know.”
You nodded too, trying to mirror his indifference even though your stomach had begun to twist into knots, “It’s okay if you have, Mattheo. I mean... it’s only natural, right? We didn’t choose this.”
“You’re right,” He said quietly, “We didn’t.”
You stopped in front of the Gryffindor common room. The Fat Lady eyed you curiously from her portrait, but didn’t say a word.
Mattheo offered you a small, hollow smile—the kind people give when they’re pretending not to bleed—and turned to leave.
You watched his retreating back. You knew you were going to cry the moment you were alone, so what did it matter?
“But,” You said loudly.
He stopped. Turned.
You swallowed the lump in your throat, forcing the words out before you lost your nerve, “But I think I’d still choose you… if I had the choice now.”
Silence.
It blanketed the space between you, thick and charged.
Mattheo didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But something in his eyes fractured—like a crack through glass, sudden and sharp.
He stepped back toward you, slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. His voice, when it came, was quieter than you’d ever heard it.
“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
You shook your head, “I mean it.”
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—like he didn’t quite believe it, but desperately wanted to.
His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You make me crazy,” He said, almost helplessly, “You drive me up the fucking wall, and half the time I want to strangle you.”
A faint laugh escaped you—wet and shaky.
“But the thought of you with someone else,” He whispered, “Makes me feel like I can’t breathe.”
Your heart stuttered.
He stepped even closer now, “So no. I haven’t thought about being with anyone else. Not really. Not since you.”
The air was thick between you. Charged. Magnetic.
You stared at him, wide-eyed, “Mattheo…”
He raised a hand, hesitated—then tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingering just a moment too long.
“If I had the choice,” he said, “I’d still choose you too.”
Neither of you moved.
And then, slowly, cautiously, you leaned into him—your forehead brushing his, your breath mingling with his in the narrow space between you.
His eyes dropped to your lips.
You didn’t speak.
You didn’t need to.
His hand slid from the back of your neck to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing softly against your cheek. You tilted your face toward him, heart thudding so loudly it drowned out everything else.
And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t rough or rushed like you thought it might be. It was slow. Gentle. Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.
You melted into him, fingers curling into the front of his robes as he pulled you just a little closer—close enough to feel the shudder in his chest when you exhaled.
When you finally pulled away, your forehead rested against his again, both of you catching your breath in the quiet.
He didn’t let go.
Neither did you.
And in that small, stolen moment outside the common room, the world felt… still.
Like maybe—for the first time since the bond was formed—you weren’t fighting fate anymore.
You were choosing it. You were choosing him.
***
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