Summary: Convincing Mattheo to wear a clay mask was hard enough. Convincing the rest of the boys? Before long, Slytherin's toughest boys are sitting around in fluffy headbands with freshly painted nails, questioning every life decision that led them here.
Warnings: None!
A/N: Requests are open! Comment to be added to my tag list!
Masterlist
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"Matty, please."
"No. Hard pass."
"Baby, I swear it'll help you relax."
"I'm not putting that shit on my face, sweetheart."
Mattheo side-eyed the clay mask you'd already applied to your own face.
The two of you were in the bathroom attached to your dorm.
You sat on the counter while Mattheo stood between your legs.
"It looks disgusting."
"It'll help you relax!"
"I don't know how anyone can relax with mud on their face."
You rolled your eyes.
"It isn't mud. C'mon, Matty. Just try it. For me?"
Mattheo hated when you gave him puppy eyes.
They always worked.
"You're insufferable, you know that? Fine. But only a thin layer."
You grinned and reached for one of your pink headbands.
"I'm not wearing that."
"Well, unless you want clay getting into those beautiful curls of yours..."
Mattheo huffed.
"Fine. But you're not telling anyone."
"No promises."
You carefully slipped the headband over his curls before opening the container of clay mask.
"Ready?"
Scooping a little onto your fingertips, you gently spread the cool mask across his cheek.
Mattheo closed his eyes and leaned closer, bracing his hands on either side of you.
"Mask feel good?"
"No. Your hands do."
You snorted.
"Flirt."
"You like it."
"Maybe."
You continued spreading the mask over the rest of his face.
The room settled into a comfortable silence.
"You look relaxed."
"I'm always relaxed with you."
"Mhm."
"What? It's true."
"Maybe. Or maybe you just don't want to admit the mask is actually working."
Mattheo let out a quiet laugh.
"That's not an answer."
"Shhh. Just apply the mask."
"Topic changer."
Mattheo opened one eye.
"All done."
"So, how long does this need to dry?"
"About twenty minutes."
"Yours is already half dry."
"That's because I put mine on first."
"Great."
"Don't be grumpy. We can do something else while we wait."
"Like what?"
"Well..."
A mischievous smile spread across your face.
"I could paint your nails."
Mattheo froze.
"No. Absolutely not. That's where I draw the line."
"It'll help pass the time! Besides, we can take it off afterward."
"No."
"Oh, pleeease, Matty. I need the practice. And your nails have been through enough after Quidditch."
"Sweetheart..."
"Please?"
You wrapped your arms around his waist.
Mattheo sighed dramatically.
"Fine. But not a word to anyone. Understood?"
"Pinky promise."
You held out your pinky.
He hooked his around yours before lifting your hand and pressing a quick kiss to your finger.
"Okay, stay here. I'm going to grab my nail polish."
"Hurry before I change my mind."
Ten minutes later...
The two of you sat cross-legged on your bed, surrounded by plushies and bottles of nail polish.
Mattheo's nails were now painted a very bright shade of pink.
"Sooo... what do you think?"
He examined them critically.
"Hmm. You went outside the lines." He nodded thoughtfully. "B-minus."
You gasped.
"After all my hard work making you pretty and pink, I get a B-minus?"
The dorm room door suddenly swung open.
Both of you looked up.
Lorenzo stepped inside.
"Hey, have you seen my wa-"
He stopped dead.
"...Bloody hell, Riddle."
Mattheo's face immediately turned scarlet.
"Get out."
"Oh, absolutely not."
Lorenzo doubled over laughing.
"Blaise! Theo! You have to see this!"
Mattheo pointed an accusing finger at him.
"If either of them walks through that door, I'm throwing you out the window."
"With pink nails?" Lorenzo grinned. "Very intimidating."
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.
"Oh no," you muttered.
Theo appeared in the doorway first, followed by Blaise.
The room fell silent.
Theo looked at Mattheo.
Then at the pink nails.
Then at the fluffy headband.
"...I'm not saying a word."
Blaise snorted.
"I am."
Mattheo narrowed his eyes.
"Choose your next sentence very carefully."
Blaise folded his arms, clearly trying not to laugh.
"So... whose idea was the manicure?"
Mattheo jerked a thumb toward you.
"Hers."
You gasped dramatically.
"And who agreed to it?"
Mattheo opened his mouth.
Closed it.
"...That isn't the point."
"It is exactly the point," Theo said, fighting a smile.
Lorenzo was practically wheezing by now.
"I've known you for years, Riddle, and somehow this is the scariest you've ever looked."
Mattheo frowned.
"Shut up"
Lorenzo burst into another fit of laughter.
"You don't get a say. Your nails are pink."
You couldn't help laughing too.
Then an idea popped into your head.
You smiled mischievously.
*Twenty minutes later.*
Mattheo looked around the room with far too much satisfaction.
Lorenzo, Theo, and Blaise sat in a row on your bed, each wearing a fluffy headband and a drying clay mask.
Pansy sat beside you, grinning as she carefully painted Theo's nails a deep blue.
You were busy painting Lorenzo's bright lavender.
"I hate all of you," Lorenzo muttered.
"You've said that three times already," Theo replied.
"And I'll say it a fourth."
Blaise sighed dramatically.
"I knew walking into this room was a mistake."
Mattheo leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"I warned you."
"You absolutely did not," Lorenzo shot back.
Pansy held up Theo's hand.
"Ooh. These are cute."
Theo stared at his freshly painted nails.
"I've never been more conflicted in my life."
You smiled innocently.
"Who's next?"
Three heads snapped toward you.
"Draco."
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Tag list - @pbjts @bunnieeegohop @mooniez @ithinkaboutyouuu @yourstargirlyyy @foolintherainnn
The Black family name carried weight, whether I wanted it to or not. Being Regulus Black’s daughter meant expectations sharp posture, sharper tongue, and the ability to navigate Slytherin politics like it was second nature. By fifth year, I had become something of a legend at Hogwarts.
Not because of scandalous behaviour or extraordinary beauty though people whispered plenty of both but because I was untouchable. Confident. Clever. Always five steps ahead. The sort of girl everyone wanted to either be or have on their arm.
And of course, the one boy who insisted on competing with me constantly was none other than Harry Potter.
“Y/N,” he’d say with that infuriatingly smug grin as if he’d already won whatever game we were playing, “your essay was clever, I’ll give you that but I couldn’t help noticing how often you parrot other people’s thoughts. Do you ever have an original one of your own, or do you just steal brilliance and dress it up in prettier words?”
To which I’d reply coolly, “Interesting observation, Potter, especially coming from someone who wouldn’t know an original thought if it hexed him in the face. Don’t confuse survival instincts and dumb luck with intelligence it makes you look desperate.”
The class would laugh, and the contest would go on.
If Harry was the golden boy of Hogwarts, I was the dark star that rivalled him equal in attention, opposite in style. We were never cruel to each other, not truly, but our barbs cut close enough to keep people watching.
Still, there was one person who watched me differently.
Mattheo Riddle.
The infamous son of Tom Riddle. My father had never spoken much of Voldemort’s so-called heir before I came to Hogwarts, only that he existed. And there he was dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that missed nothing. He carried himself with the sort of dangerous calm that made people wary. Not afraid, not exactly just aware.
He was rarely far from me, though he played it off well. Always leaning against the corridor wall when I passed, always appearing in the library when I studied, always quiet but unmistakably present. Like a shadow. Like a guard dog.
Not that he’d ever admit to caring.
Something happened after Defence Against the Dark Arts one Thursday afternoon. The classroom buzzed with noise as students packed away their wands and parchment. I was mid-argument with Potter again.
“You always think you’re clever,” Harry said, shoving his books into his bag, “but all you do is repeat what you’ve heard at home. Daddy’s little mouthpiece.”
The words stung not because I cared what Harry thought of my father, but because the murmurs that followed proved he’d struck somewhere dangerous.
I opened my mouth to reply, calm as always, but I never got the chance.
Mattheo was out of his seat in a flash.
He had Harry shoved against the wall before anyone could blink, hand fisted in the collar of his robes, eyes blazing. The room went silent except for the scrape of desks and the collective gasp of students.
“What did you just say?” Mattheo’s voice was low, lethal.
Harry, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “Get your hands off me, Riddle.”
Ron was instantly at Harry’s side, wand halfway raised. “Oi, Y/N call your dog off before he does something stupid.”
The words your dog ricocheted through the room, fuelling the whispers. Heat crawled up my neck, not from shame, but from the ridiculousness of it all.
“Mattheo.” My voice sliced through the tension. I stood, smooth and deliberate, and crossed the space between them. My expression never wavered from cool irritation. “Back. Off.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. His jaw clenched, shoulders taut, like he wanted nothing more than to punch Harry square in the face. But finally, with visible effort, he released his grip and stepped back.
I turned to Harry, who was straightening his robes with a defiant scowl.
“You’ll have to do better than that, Potter,” I said evenly, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’ve been called worse by better people. Don’t think for a second you’ve managed to wound me.”
The class gave a collective exhale. Harry’s smirk faltered just slightly, as if he’d been expecting a different reaction. I offered him a razor-sharp smile and then walked out of the room before anyone could say another word.
Mattheo followed, of course.
The corridor was mercifully empty. My footsteps echoed against the stone, and I could feel Mattheo’s presence trailing a few paces behind. Finally, I stopped and turned, crossing my arms.
“If I didn’t know any better,” I said, arching a brow, “I’d think you had a little crush on me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Pfft. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Mm.” I tilted my head, studying him. “So you just throw yourself at Potter for sport, then? Or do you always play the role of bodyguard when someone bruises my ego?”
His gaze met mine, dark and unreadable. For a moment, I thought he might actually confess. Instead, he scoffed.
“Potter’s an idiot. He deserved it.”
“Perhaps,” I allowed, leaning in just enough that my hair brushed my shoulder. “But you were ready to tear him apart. For me. Admit it.”
“I don’t admit anything.”
I smiled, slow and knowing. “Of course you don’t.”
I turned on my heel and continued down the corridor, leaving him in silence. Still, I didn’t need to look back to know he was following again, like the shadow he always was.
That night in the common room, Draco smirked at me from across the fire.
“You know,” he drawled, “you’ve got Riddle wrapped round your finger.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
But as I caught sight of Mattheo leaning casually against the wall, eyes fixed on me like I was the only person in the room, I wasn’t entirely sure Draco was wrong.
If there was one thing I could always rely on, it was Draco Malfoy’s knack for mischief. Not the loud, gaudy kind of chaos the Weasley twins thrived on, but the sort of sharp, calculated meddling that left everyone else wondering if they’d just been played like a violin.
And lately, I had the distinct impression that Draco had chosen me and Mattheo as his favourite instruments.
It started small too small for me to notice at first. An extra chair nudged next to mine in Potions, despite the desk being cramped enough already. Mattheo slid into it without a word, elbows brushing mine whenever we reached for ingredients. A week later, Draco ‘forgot’ his quill in Charms and asked if Mattheo could share with me, his smirk unmissable as we both reached for the same ink pot.
By the third time when Draco conveniently paired us for a group project in Defence Against the Dark Arts despite Professor Carrow having assigned partners at random I finally narrowed my eyes at him.
“You’re insufferable,” I muttered under my breath as we packed up.
Draco only smirked, adjusting his robes with lazy elegance. “You’ll thank me one day, darling.”
I doubted that very much.
Still, Draco’s interference meant Mattheo and I spent far more time together than I might have chosen on my own. He wasn’t loud or boastful like most of the boys in Slytherin; instead, he had this unnerving calm about him, like still water hiding sharp rocks beneath.
But even still waters ripple.
At Hogsmeade the following weekend, we went as a group Draco, Pansy, Theo, Blaise, Mattheo, and me. The cobbled streets were packed with students, the air buzzing with laughter and chatter as we wound between Honeydukes and Zonko’s.
It should have been an ordinary trip, but I began to notice the pattern. Every time the crowd pressed too close, Mattheo’s hand brushed my back, guiding me forward with a touch so light I might have imagined it. Except it happened again. And again. Always subtle. Always steady.
At first, I told myself it was practicality. The streets were chaos, after all. But when a Gryffindor boy I barely recognised shouted, “Looking good, Black!” from across the way, Mattheo’s wand hand twitched. A second later, the Gryffindor yelped as his bag split open, spilling sweets and quills across the road.
Mattheo didn’t even look at him. He just walked on, expression unreadable.
My brows lifted. Protective hexing? Really?
Later that afternoon, the group split up Draco dragging Pansy into Madam Malkin’s to look at robes, Blaise and Theo wandering off for Butterbeer. That left Mattheo and me outside Scrivenshaft’s, standing awkwardly like we’d been paired off for some ridiculous date neither of us had agreed to.
“You’re quiet,” I remarked, breaking the silence.
He glanced at me, dark eyes steady. “You’re loud enough for both of us.”
I laughed, sharp and amused. “Careful, Riddle. People will think you’re sweet on me if you keep shadowing me like this.”
His jaw ticked, but his reply was instant. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, I don’t need to. You’re the one doing all the flattering without realising.” I stepped closer, tilting my head as though studying him under a lens. “The hand at my back, the hex on the Gryffindor what should I call it, then, if not interest?”
“Control,” he said smoothly. “Power. Don’t mistake my sense of order for… anything else.”
“Mm.” I tapped my chin in mock thought. “So when you glared at that Ravenclaw boy who smiled at me in the library, that was… power, was it?”
He stiffened. Just slightly, but enough for me to notice.
“You imagine things.”
I smiled, slow and knowing. “Of course I do.”
Over the next week, Draco’s meddling grew bolder. He began making comments outright, nudging me towards Mattheo with a grin that made me want to hex him.
“Mattheo, why don’t you walk Y/N to the Great Hall? Can’t have her mobbed by admirers.”
Or, “Y/N, Riddle’s been staring at you so hard in class I thought he might catch fire. Do us all a favour and tell him to blink.”
Mattheo never rose to the bait he simply rolled his eyes or muttered under his breath but I noticed the way his hand would curl into a fist, like Draco’s words struck closer than he liked.
And me? I found myself enjoying it.
Not because I wanted him at least, that’s what I told myself but because it was rare to see Mattheo Riddle unsettled. He was always so calm, so collected, so unreadable. Teasing him became a game, one I was rather good at.
One evening in the library, as we worked on our Defence project, I leaned back in my chair and watched him scribble notes with quiet intensity. His handwriting was sharp, almost violent in its precision.
“You really ought to learn subtlety, Riddle,” I said softly, just loud enough for him to hear. “Before people start thinking you’re sweet on me.”
His quill froze mid-word. For half a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he looked up, eyes dark and dangerous.
“They can think what they like,” he said evenly. “It makes no difference.”
“Doesn’t it?” I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like you’re protecting me. Watching me. Following me around like a shadow.”
His gaze held mine, unflinching. “Shadows are only dangerous if you forget they’re there.”
A shiver ran down my spine, though I masked it with a smirk. “Cryptic as ever. Tell me, Mattheo when you lie awake at night, do you practise those lines in the mirror, or do they come naturally?”
For once, he actually smirked back, though it was fleeting. “Naturally.”
I chuckled and returned to my notes, but I couldn’t ignore the weight of his stare lingering far longer than necessary.
A few days later, our project was nearly done. We stayed after class to tidy up, Draco lingering just long enough to toss a final grenade over his shoulder.
“Try not to snog each other on the desk, yeah? Wouldn’t want to traumatise the first-years.”
I rolled my eyes, throwing a crumpled scrap of parchment at his head. He dodged easily, laughing as he swept out of the room.
Mattheo muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I’ll kill him.”
I smirked. “What’s wrong, Riddle? Embarrassed?”
“Of Draco? Never.”
“Of me, then?”
His eyes flicked to mine, intense as always. “You don’t embarrass me, Y/N.”
The way he said it calm, certain, with that faint edge of something unspoken left me momentarily speechless. Which was rare enough to be alarming.
I covered quickly with a teasing grin. “Careful, Mattheo. Keep talking like that and I might think you actually like me.”
He arched a brow. “And that would be a tragedy, wouldn’t it?”
I laughed, though my chest felt oddly tight. “For you, maybe.”
By the end of the week, one thing was certain: Draco was orchestrating something, delighting in playing puppet master. And Mattheo, for all his stoic denials, was proving impossible to ignore.
Because every time the crowd grew too loud, his hand was at my back.
Every time someone looked at me too long, a hex flew their way.
And every time I teased him, his mask cracked just slightly, just enough to show me the truth he refused to say aloud.
There was something different about Potter lately.
Oh, the smugness was the same as ever, the messy hair, the irritatingly bright eyes that made half the girls in Hogwarts go weak at the knees. But the way he spoke to me… it had shifted.
It wasn’t just competition anymore. It wasn’t just his usual desperate need to prove himself cleverer, sharper, faster. No there was something almost… playful about it.
And I couldn’t quite decide if that made it better or worse.
“You know,” he said one afternoon after Charms, falling into step beside me, “you’d be almost likeable if you weren’t so determined to win every argument.”
“Almost likeable?” I arched a brow, adjusting my bag over my shoulder. “What a glowing review, Potter. I’ll have it printed on my gravestone.”
He grinned, leaning closer. “I’m serious. You’re… well, you’re brilliant, really. Annoying as hell, but brilliant.”
I blinked at him, momentarily wrong-footed. Was Harry Potter… flirting with me?
Before I could even process, a dark shadow fell across us. Mattheo.
He slid between us with the kind of ease that made it look accidental, though we both knew better. His shoulder brushed mine deliberately as he murmured, “Potter, shouldn’t you be chasing after Weasley instead of wasting your breath here?”
Harry smirked. “Touchy, aren’t we?”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing more, only falling into step on my other side like a silent sentinel.
It wasn’t until later, lying in bed, that it clicked. Potter wasn’t competing anymore. He was baiting. Stirring the pot, dangling compliments like bait on a hook clumsy and transparent, but just enough to spark a reaction.
And Mattheo was biting every single time.
The next Hogsmeade trip proved it beyond doubt.
We’d split into the usual groups, but as the evening drew in, Harry ended up walking me back towards the castle. Or rather, he manoeuvred it so he was the one keeping pace with me while Ron and Hermione went ahead.
“You know,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “for someone with your reputation, you’re surprisingly easy to talk to.”
I snorted. “That’s the worst line I’ve ever heard, Potter. Honestly, have you practised that one?”
He flushed slightly but pressed on. “I’m just saying… you’re not all sharp edges. Sometimes you’re well...” His eyes flicked to my lips, and my suspicion was confirmed.
Merlin’s beard. He really was flirting.
And badly.
It might have been flattering, if I hadn’t already felt the unmistakable prickling awareness at the back of my neck. Mattheo was behind us. I didn’t need to turn around to know Draco, Blaze, Theo, and Enzo too, no doubt. I could practically feel their amusement radiating from several paces back.
An idea sparked. Dangerous. Delicious.
I slowed slightly, tilting my head towards Harry, letting my voice drop into something softer, sweeter. “You think I’m easy to talk to, do you? That’s a new one. Most boys can’t get two words out without tripping over themselves.”
Harry’s eyes widened, clearly unused to me playing along. His lips parted like he was about to stammer something else, and I leaned in just a touch closer, enough to make it look deliberate from a distance.
“Oh, Potter,” I purred dramatically, hand brushing his arm, “you really are full of surprises.”
Behind us, I heard Draco snort with laughter, quickly muffled.
Harry swallowed hard, clearly uncertain whether I was mocking him or not. (I was. Thoroughly.) “Well, maybe I’ve just… never tried with anyone else.”
I nearly cackled. Poor boy. He didn’t even realise he was pouring petrol straight onto Mattheo Riddle’s fire.
Because the moment the words left Harry’s mouth, Mattheo snapped.
One second Harry was walking beside me, and the next he was shoved hard against the low stone wall of the path, Mattheo’s hand fisted in his collar, eyes blazing like storm clouds about to break.
“What did you just say to her?” Mattheo’s voice was low, dangerous, the kind that promised violence.
Harry’s face reddened, whether from anger or lack of air I couldn’t tell. “Get off me, Riddle”
“You think you can talk to her like that? You think you can even look at her like that?”
“Mattheo!” I stepped forward, though if I was honest, part of me was savouring every second. “Let him go.”
He didn’t move. The others had caught up now, Draco smirking like Christmas had come early, Blaze, Theo and Enzo watching with interest.
Harry shoved back, though he was no match for Mattheo’s strength. “She doesn’t belong to you!”
The words hung in the air like sparks from a firework.
And suddenly, I understood. All of it. Harry’s clumsy compliments, his pointed looks, the way he’d pushed me into conversation after conversation. He’d been baiting Mattheo this whole time. Not because he truly wanted me though I suspected he didn’t entirely dislike me either but because he’d known it would drive Riddle mad.
The realisation was… intoxicating.
“Mattheo,” I said again, more firmly this time. “He’s not worth it.”
For a moment longer, Mattheo’s grip stayed iron-tight. Then, with visible effort, he shoved Harry back and stepped away, chest rising and falling with controlled fury.
Harry straightened his robes, glaring but wisely saying nothing more.
I touched Mattheo’s arm lightly, drawing his attention. “Walk me back,” I said simply.
His eyes flickered to mine, still burning, but he gave a sharp nod. Without another word, he fell into step beside me, leaving the others behind.
The silence between us on the path back was thick enough to choke on. The castle loomed closer with every step, the sky painted in streaks of purple dusk.
Finally, I spoke, my voice low but laced with amusement. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were in love with me.”
He stiffened, gaze snapping to mine. “Don’t start.”
“Why not? It would explain an awful lot. The glaring, the hexes, the way you nearly throttled Potter just now.”
“He was asking for it.”
“Maybe. But you don’t fight every boy who talks to me, Mattheo. Only him.” I arched a brow. “Jealous, were you?”
His jaw clenched. “I don’t get jealous.”
I smiled, stepping closer so our shoulders brushed. “Then what was that back there? Protectiveness? Possessiveness? Or something a little more inconvenient?”
He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
We walked in silence for a few more paces, the air crackling with tension. I could see the battle on his face control versus impulse, denial versus desire.
Finally, he stopped dead in his tracks, turning to face me fully. His eyes were molten, burning straight through me.
“You want me to say it?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Fine. I’ll say it.”
My breath caught.
“I don’t just like you, Y/N. I’m in love with you. Have been for longer than I care to admit.”
The words hit me like a spell to the chest. For a heartbeat, all I could do was stare.
He stepped closer, so close I could feel the heat radiating off him. “Happy now?”
summary: found family! when mattheo goes missing after the war, he is presumed dead by his pregnant girlfriend. his friend's moved in to fill the hole he left, but it's never truly filled until a ghost walks in the apartment.
˚ ༘♡ ·˚꒰ᥕᥱᥣᥴ᥆꧑ᥱ t᥆ ꧑ᥡ bᥣ᥆g꒱ ₊˚ˑ༄
The flat in London was never quiet, not really. Even in the lull after dinner, when dishes clinked in the sink and Blaise was charmed into drying them by hand (you’d caught him cheating once, wand flicking lazily, and never let him forget it), the rooms still hummed with life. Theo’s low voice drifted from the sitting room, coaxing Vinny into stacking wooden blocks with slow precision, his patience infinite where yours sometimes frayed. Draco sat curled in the armchair by the fire, book balanced on one knee, though you could tell by the way his thumb stilled over the page that he was listening to every sound in the room. Lorenzo had taken to strumming a guitar he’d picked up at a Muggle shop down the street, soft chords threading through the air like smoke.
It was comfortable chaos, the kind that seeped into your bones until you couldn’t imagine being alone anymore. The kind Mattheo would have loved.
Still, there were moments — in the pauses between laughter, in the half-second of silence when a flame snapped too loud in the hearth — that your chest tightened, like the air was waiting for something. For someone.
The old wooden floors creaked with familiar footsteps, doors groaned in protest as they shut, and every sound was so ordinary you hardly noticed them anymore. But sometimes, just sometimes, you caught yourself holding your breath, listening for a tread you hadn’t heard in years.
Theo had claimed the armchair by the window, long legs stretched out like he owned the room, a book balanced carelessly in one hand while your son sprawled across his lap, boneless with comfort. Vinny’s little curls stuck out in every direction from Blaise’s half-hearted attempt at brushing them earlier, a stubborn halo that made him look even more like his father. Draco muttered from the sofa, voice sharp as he complained about the scattered blocks he’d nearly tripped over, though the twitch of his mouth betrayed him. Vinny shrieked with laughter anyway, kicking his small feet as Lorenzo hunched dramatically over a sock puppet, voice pitched high and ridiculous.
The fire popped in the grate, golden light washing the walls, and the whole scene wrapped around you like a blanket — messy, noisy, whole. A family stitched together not by blood but by choice.
You leaned against the kitchen doorway, heart full, throat tight. It wasn’t the family you thought you’d have, but it was the one you needed. When Mattheo disappeared, you’d thought your life had ended with him — that the world had cracked in two and left you to stumble through the pieces alone. The silence of those first nights had nearly devoured you whole.
But the boys hadn’t let you drown. They moved in like a storm and remade the shape of your days. Theo made sure there was always tea waiting in the mornings, a book slid silently into your hands when he saw your mind drifting too far inward. Draco took the sharp edges of responsibility onto his own shoulders — bills, errands, every tedious piece of reality you couldn’t bear to touch. Blaise cooked when you forgot to eat, charmed your windows open to let in the breeze when the air in your flat grew too heavy. Lorenzo made you laugh on the days you swore you’d forgotten how, his ridiculous impressions and too-loud singing dragging sound from your chest until it ached in the best way.
They never let you sit too long alone with your thoughts. Someone was always dropping onto the sofa beside you, tugging you into conversation, putting a cup of something warm into your hands. They carried the weight of your grief so you could carry Vinny.
And when your son was born, they slipped seamlessly into the roles they hadn’t been asked to play but had already chosen: uncles in every way that mattered. Protective, exasperated, endlessly soft for him. They handled the chaos of laundry, the sleepless nights, the sharp-edged tantrums — anything to let you just be his mother. Anything to keep you standing.
Still, every time Vinny tilted his chin just so, or scowled with that familiar furrowed brow, your heart clenched. He looked so much like him. The shape of his eyes, storm-dark and bright all at once, the wild defiance curled in his smile — Mattheo lived in your son’s face, a reminder you could never escape no matter how distracted you let yourself be.
It undid you in quiet moments, like when Vinny stomped his little foot with more drama than necessary, curls bouncing, or when he laughed until he hiccupped, head thrown back in the same reckless abandon that used to make you fall harder for Mattheo every day. Sometimes you swore even his silences mirrored his father’s — heavy, thoughtful, carrying more weight than a child’s ought to.
So you whispered the truth to him in the dark, when the flat was still and the only sound was the steady rhythm of his breath. You whispered it with your lips pressed against his temple, his curls damp with soap and his small fists clutching at your shirt as though even in sleep he was afraid you’d let go. Your father was brave. Your father was good. Your father loved you without even knowing you existed.
And though Vinny was too young to understand, you said it anyway. Because maybe one day he would. Because maybe, if you said it enough, the words would stitch together the jagged holes in your chest.
You were warming a nighttime bottle when the door creaked. At first, you barely registered it, lost in the small rituals that had become your anchor — shaking the glass gently, testing a drop of milk on your wrist, the quiet hum of the kettle filling the kitchen with steam. The boys rarely used the front door at night, preferring the floo, but you didn’t think much of it.
Until silence fell. Not the easy kind that usually meant Theo had finally coaxed Vinny to sleep, but something sharper. Alert. You could feel it in the air, like a string pulled taut.
It was soft, hesitant, but every head snapped up.
Theo’s book vanished, wand in his hand before the page had even settled to the floor. His arm tightened protectively around Vinny, shifting the boy just out of reach, his body angled like a shield. Draco was on his feet in a heartbeat, shoulders squared, jaw tight, as though he’d been waiting for this moment all along. Blaise and Lorenzo moved like shadows — no hesitation, no exchanged glance — just muscle and instinct, stepping into the narrow space between you and the door.
Reason didn’t factor in. Whoever had dared to breach your home, their home, wasn’t getting within striking distance of you or the boy. The air thrummed with wards and tension, their movements so practiced it felt choreographed — as if they’d been rehearsing for this exact nightmare, always prepared for the day something came clawing at the fragile safety they’d built.
And for a second, you were struck by the sheer ferocity of it: four young men who had carried your grief as their own, now ready to burn the world down before letting harm touch you or Vinny.
“Stay with him,” Theo murmured, low and steady, his eyes flicking briefly to you before locking back on the door. He shifted Vinny upright, setting him gently on his feet with a soft pat to his curls — even in urgency, his touch was careful.
Vinny’s little legs wobbled as he toddled toward you, curls bouncing, clutching the hem of your shirt the second he reached you. You bent over him quickly, scooping him close against your hip, and pressed your lips to his hair. The smell of soap and milk and innocence wrapped around you, grounding you even as dread clawed at your chest like talons.
“Shh, it’s fine, baby,” you whispered, voice soft, calm in a way that felt like a lie. Your heart was slamming hard enough you thought he might feel it where his tiny hand rested against you. You rocked him instinctively, swaying, one hand stroking his back as your eyes darted to the boys still frozen in their protective stances.
The air felt brittle, stretched thin with the weight of waiting. Whoever was at that door, whatever had slipped through your wards, had walked straight into a den of wolves.
From the sitting room, you heard it. A voice. Low, cracked, rougher than memory, like stone dragged across stone.
“You might want to come in here.” It was Draco’s voice that carried those words, steady but heavy, weighted with something you couldn’t name — something that made the air leave your lungs all at once.
For a heartbeat, everything went silent. Even Vinny stilled in your arms, blinking up at you with Mattheo’s eyes, wide and curious.
The blood in your body felt wrong — too loud in your ears, too fast in your veins. Ghost, you thought, dizzy. It had to be. Because the boy you loved, the boy you grieved, was gone. He was gone.
And yet Draco didn’t sound afraid. He didn’t sound like someone staring at a ghost. He sounded like someone who had just seen the impossible walk through the door.
The boys were frozen, wands steady, but something in them cracked wide open. Blaise’s jaw dropped, lips parting on a soundless curse. Draco’s composure — that iron mask he wore so well — shattered like glass, his breath catching audibly. And Theo — Theo, who never flinched, never faltered — his hand trembled as he lowered his wand a fraction, chest heaving as if he’d been struck.
None of them spoke at first. The silence was a living thing, stretching, suffocating, the only sound the faint drip of water from the sink behind you and the soft hitch of Vinny’s breath as he pressed his face into your neck.
Because there he was.
Mattheo Riddle.
Not the memory you carried in photographs and dreams, but flesh and bone and ruin, standing in your doorway like he had clawed his way back from the grave itself.
His curls were longer, matted with sweat and dirt. His cheek was hollowed, a bruise blooming dark beneath one eye. His clothes hung off him like they’d been stolen from a stranger. But his eyes — Merlin, his eyes — still burned that same impossible amber, locked on the room like he didn’t dare blink in case it all vanished.
And you… your knees nearly buckled. The world tilted, blurred, but you moved anyway, every step pulled by something deeper than thought. Vinny whimpered as your arms shifted, and you pressed a kiss to his curls, whispering, “It’s okay, sweetheart,” though your voice cracked like thin glass.
You turned, hands trembling as you lifted him toward Lorenzo. He didn’t argue, just gathered the boy close against his chest, his eyes never leaving Mattheo. Vinny buried his face in Lorenzo’s shoulder, murmuring sleepily, and for a heartbeat you envied him — that easy, blissful unawareness.
Your hands were empty now. You were hardly breathing as you crossed the room, each step slower, heavier, until you stood in the doorway.
Bruised, gaunt, clothes torn to ruin. Rain slicked his hair, his skin pale, but his eyes — dark, sharp, alive — were the same. For a heartbeat, you thought you were seeing a ghost.
Your fingers dug into the doorframe. The room behind you faded — the hiss of the lanterns, the shuffle of the boys, even the faint whimper of Vinny being carried away — until there was only him.
“No,” you whispered, voice trembling as you clutched the doorframe. “No, you can’t… you’re…”
“Dead?” His mouth twisted around the word, bitter, broken. He stepped forward, and the lamplight caught on the bruises shadowing his jaw, the hollows carved deep into his cheeks. “I know. I thought so too.”
You shook your head, tears slipping hot and unbidden down your cheeks. He was close enough now that you could see the tremor in his hands, the way his body swayed as though every step was borrowed strength. You wanted to reach out, to touch, to anchor him — but fear held you still. Fear that he’d vanish if you tried.
Your chest heaved, torn between laughter and sobs. “Matty.”
The boys didn’t move at first, their grief written plain as yours, mirrored in their wide, wet eyes. It was Draco who broke first, his wand clattering softly against the floor as his shoulders sagged. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, almost to himself, almost like a prayer. “It’s really you.”
Blaise swore under his breath, running a hand down his face, while Lorenzo only clutched Vinny closer, as if shielding him from the ghost who wasn’t a ghost at all. Theo hadn’t looked away once — his gaze locked on his best friend, his brother, like he was afraid to blink and lose him all over again.
Mattheo’s throat bobbed, his lips parted, but no words came. He looked at them — his family, his boys — and then back at you, eyes shining, broken wide open.
For the first time in years, they all looked like boys again, like brothers who’d just had the impossible handed back to them. Theo’s mouth twisted as though he might cry, and Blaise crossed the room first, pulling Mattheo into a rough, wordless embrace that was more a collision than a hug. Draco followed, clapping a trembling hand to his shoulder, muttering something sharp and strangled that sounded suspiciously like don’t ever fucking do that again.
Mattheo bore it all silently, face buried against them, shaking with a sound that wasn’t quite laughter and wasn’t quite sobbing. Lorenzo hung back, still clutching Vinny tight against his chest, and your son squirmed, babbling in protest at being restrained.
The noise drew Mattheo’s attention. His head lifted, eyes cutting across the room — and then, for the first time, he saw him.
Vinny.
Behind you, Vinny’s sleepy voice carried down the hall. “Mama?”
You turned sharply, heart twisting so hard you thought it might snap. There he was — small, soft in his footed pajamas, curls mussed from Lorenzo’s shoulder. His fists rubbed at his eyes, and when he blinked them open, they shone the same impossible shade of brown you’d fallen in love with years ago.
Mattheo froze. Every muscle in his battered frame went rigid, his breath catching sharp in his throat. His gaze locked on the boy, tracing every line of him like he’d been carved from memory. The furrow in his tiny brow, the defiance already hiding in his little chin — it was like looking at a mirror that had been set two feet tall.
The room seemed to narrow, silent except for Vinny’s small, uncertain steps across the floor.
Theo moved immediately, rising to intercept, lifting your son before he could cross the last few feet. His voice was steady, but his eyes flicked to yours, asking for the call.
“Uncle Teddy,” Vinny mumbled, tucking into Theo’s shoulder, his voice already laced with sleep again.
Mattheo swayed forward a half-step, hands twitching at his sides as though they might lift without his permission. His lips parted, but no sound came — only a look. Raw, broken, knowing.
Your chest burned as you whispered, barely managing to keep your voice from shattering, “Please take Vinny to bed.”
Theo nodded once, carrying the boy back down the hall, leaving you and Mattheo standing in the wreckage of silence.
Mattheo’s chest was rising and falling like he’d sprinted miles, but it wasn’t exhaustion — it was the weight of seeing you, seeing this life he’d missed. His voice broke on a whisper.
“You, um… you had a baby?” His voice was hoarse, raw, as if the words themselves cost him something. His eyes darted to yours, scanning, searching for signs of a joke, a trick, anything to make this impossible truth vanish.
Tears stung your eyes immediately, blurring the wreck of him until all you could see was the boy you loved. “I had our baby, Vincent. Vincent Mattheo Riddle.” Your lips quivered around the name. “He’s two. He… he looks so much like you it hurts sometimes.”
Mattheo’s hands went to his face, fingers brushing over bruised cheeks as if he could will them away. “Two…” His voice cracked, low and rough. He swallowed hard, eyes darting past you, catching the empty space where Vinny had just been carried off by Theo. “Two years…”
He stepped closer, every movement careful, tentative. “I—he’s mine?” His green eyes, so impossibly alive even in ruin, locked on yours, searching, pleading for confirmation.
You nodded, voice breaking. “Every bit yours.”
For a moment, he just breathed, taking in the words, the weight of them, the impossible miracle that this little boy — your son — had been living and laughing and loving while he was gone. Then he let himself shudder, fingers curling into fists at his sides, as though he needed to hold onto himself before he could reach out to another life.
Mattheo swayed like the words struck him physically. His knees hit the floor, a soundless collapse, his hand gripping the edge of the sofa to stay upright. “Two,” he repeated, hoarse. His face crumpled as he dragged a shaking hand through his filthy hair. “Merlin. All that time. I should’ve been here. I—” He cut himself off with a sob, head bowing. “I prayed every day you’d be safe. That someone would take care of you.”
You stepped forward, knees weak, heart hammering. Tentatively, you reached out, fingertips brushing the bruised skin of his forearm. “Mattheo… it’s okay,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady. “I was safe. He was safe. The boys… they’ve been here. They kept us going.”
His chest heaved, the weight of months — years — of fear, guilt, and longing pressing against him. He looked at you, eyes haunted yet luminous, catching every detail: the curve of your jaw, the softness of your hair, the tiny rise and fall of your shoulders as you steadied yourself.
His eyes glistened, lashes clumped with rain, and for the first time in years, he almost smiled. It was cracked and broken, but real.
“Of course they did.” He sucked in a breath, throat working as he looked at you again. “So… you and Theo?”
You let out a shaky laugh, half disbelief, half relief, the sound surprising even yourself. “No,” you whispered, voice soft but certain. “Never. He’s been amazing… helping. Keeping us alive. But no, Mattheo… it’s always been you.”
Relief hit him so hard you saw it in his shoulders, in the way his body sagged against the sofa. His hand covered his mouth, and a broken sound slipped through.
“I didn’t want to believe it, but I had to be ready. I thought—” His voice fractured, trembling with all the fear and guilt he’d carried. “I thought I lost everything.”
You moved closer, every step slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. Kneeling before him, you reached out and brushed a trembling hand against his forearm. “You didn’t lose everything,” you whispered, voice catching on the emotion. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters. Vinny… he’s alive. He’s yours.”
His chest heaved with ragged breaths. He looked up at you, eyes swimming with disbelief and awe. “All this time… and you… and him…” He swallowed hard. “And I wasn’t here to…” His voice broke again, thick with what-ifs.
You shook your head, tears slipping freely now. “You’re here. That’s enough. You don’t have to apologize for surviving.”
For a moment, the weight of years hung between you — grief, fear, longing — and then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he let some of it go, leaning into your presence as though you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world he’d nearly lost.
And then Vinny’s small feet padded back down the stairs. You turned, startled — he always slipped away from Theo at least once — but your breath caught when you saw his little hand dragging along the banister, his Slytherin night blanket clutched in his tiny fist. His wide eyes locked on Mattheo, and for a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Mattheo’s chest tightened, gaze snapping to the boy. Every ragged bruise, every hollowed cheek, every scar faded from your mind as he took in the impossible sight of his son. Vinny’s curls bounced slightly as he stumbled forward, unsteady, and Mattheo’s hand shot out instinctively, though he froze just short of touching him.
The resemblance was uncanny — the shape of his eyes, the curve of his jaw, even the tiniest twitch of his nose. Mattheo’s lips parted, a cracked, whispering sound escaping. “Vinny…”
Vinny tilted his head. He studied the man on the floor with the same narrowed gaze he used when puzzling through one of Draco’s chess games, little brow furrowing as if he were trying to solve a particularly tricky riddle.
Mattheo’s chest tightened. He froze, every ragged breath caught in his throat, afraid that any sudden movement might shatter this delicate moment. His hand hovered just above Vinny’s, trembling, unsure if he should close the distance or let the boy come to him.
The boy crossed the room without hesitation, his little steps deliberate, unflinching. He stopped in front of Mattheo, tilting his head as if measuring him, and then, slowly, he lifted his small hand and pressed it gently against Mattheo’s bruised cheek.
Mattheo’s breath hitched, every muscle in his body tightening with disbelief and awe. The weight of the years he’d lost, the battles he’d fought, the fear of never returning — it all seemed to press into that single, fragile touch.
“Tiny fingers,” he whispered, voice cracking, a tremor running through him as tears welled unbidden. He lowered his forehead slightly, leaning into the warmth of that small hand, as if afraid to let go. “You’re… you’re really mine.”
A sound ripped out of him, raw and unrestrained, as he gathered his son into his arms. Vinny let out a surprised little “oof,” but then curled into him, tiny fingers tangling in his filthy shirt.
Mattheo clutched him like he was holding his soul, face buried in curls so much like his own. His shoulders shook, every tremor a release of years spent apart, of battles fought, of nights haunted by the thought of never seeing this boy.
And when his eyes finally lifted to yours over Vinny’s head, they were shattered and shining all at once — the same you’d fallen in love with, but heavier, rawer, touched by every fear and every hope he’d carried back from the edge.
You stepped closer, hand brushing the back of his arm, grounding him, whispering, “He’s okay. We’re okay. You’re home.”
Mattheo’s grip tightened around Vinny, almost desperate, and he let out a broken laugh. “Home,” he repeated, voice rough and trembling, “I… I can’t believe this is real.”
Vinny yawned into his shoulder, small body relaxing completely against the man who had been absent for two whole years, and Mattheo kissed the top of his head gently, as if swearing silently to never let anything take him away again.
For a long, suspended moment, the three of you simply existed together — broken, battered, and finally whole.
Your throat burned, but you nodded, stepping closer, finally letting yourself touch him — your fingers brushing his hair back, your palm cupping the back of his neck. His skin was damp and cold, but his eyes… his eyes were still the boy you loved.
“Better start believing it,” you murmured, flicking your eyes towards the four boys in the corner of the room all waiting for their turn with Mattheo, “Because, the uncles are never moving out, I think.”
Mattheo let out a shaky laugh, the sound ragged but genuine. His eyes flicked between you, Vinny, and the empty spaces where the boys had already begun retreating down the hall, giving the three of you a moment. “I—” He swallowed hard, voice thick. “I never imagined… you all… this life. And yet… it’s exactly how I hoped it might be.”
Vinny squirmed a little in his arms, rubbing his eyes, and Mattheo adjusted him, rocking him gently. “So… I have all of you to thank for keeping my family alive?” His gaze softened on you, full of awe and quiet reverence.
You smiled, brushing a damp strand of hair from his forehead. “Mostly Theo, Draco, Blaise, and Lorenzo. But yes… they kept us alive, and they’ll help you make it through whatever comes next.”
He nodded slowly, letting the weight of your words settle over him, then kissed the top of Vinny’s curls again. “I’ve missed so much,” he murmured, voice almost a whisper. “But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”
And in that small, quiet living room, filled with the echoes of laughter and life, you finally allowed yourself to believe it too: home was whole again, because Mattheo was finally back.
- The group claims the best corner of the Slytherin common room as "ours." Couches pushed together, blankets everywhere, fire always roaring. Y/N is always in the middle—literally—curled up with at least two boys draped over you at any time.
- They call it "the snake pit" affectionately. If anyone outside the group (like a Gryffindor) tries to approach Y/N, the whole crew stares them down until they leave.
- Pansy runs the "schedule" unofficially— "Mattheo, you're on breakfast duty with Y/N tomorrow. Draco, stop hogging her during study sessions." She acts annoyed but secretly loves being the mom-friend.
- Group chats are chaotic: Mattheo sends memes at 3 AM, Theo replies with existential quotes, Enzo adds thirst traps (of himself or the group), Blaise sends elegant voice notes, Draco complains about everything, Tom lurks and drops one cryptic line that makes everyone panic.
- They all spoil Y/N in their own ways, but compete subtly. Gifts pile up: jewelry from Blaise, rare books from Tom, custom quills from Draco, charmed playlists from Enzo, late-night snacks from Mattheo, quiet forehead kisses from Theo.
- Fights are rare but intense—usually over who gets to "protect" Y/N from something minor. Pansy mediates, or they all end up in a group hug/pile apologizing.
Individual Headcanons
(How Each Acts in the Group Dynamic with Y/N)
Draco Malfoy
- The dramatic, possessive prince. Acts like Y/N is *his* first, but melts when the others include him.
- Loves public PDA to show off ("My partner" energy). Gets sulky if someone else gets more attention, but secretly enjoys watching Y/N get loved on by the group.
- In group moments: Pulls Y/N onto his lap during movie nights (wizarding films via charmed projector), whispers pureblood gossip in your ear.
Mattheo Riddle
- The chaotic, touchy-feely wildcard. Always has a hand on you—thigh, waist, neck—like he can't help it.
- Jealous but playful about it: "Oi, Theo, move over—my turn to hold her." Turns it into group wrestling matches that end in laughter (and more cuddles).
- Protective as hell; punches first, asks questions later if anyone threatens Y/N. The group reins him in, but he loves when Pansy calls him "our attack dog."
Lorenzo "Enzo" Berkshire
- The golden retriever boyfriend energy in snake form. Flirty, charming, always making Y/N laugh.
- Loves group dates—picnics by the lake, sneaking into the Room of Requirement for movie marathons.
- Super affectionate with everyone: hugs Mattheo from behind, ruffles Theo's hair, compliments Blaise constantly. Makes the poly dynamic feel easy and fun.
Theodore "Theo" Nott
- The quiet observer who notices everything. Says little, but his actions scream devotion—fixes your tie, tucks hair behind your ear, reads to you when you're tired.
- In the group: Often the big spoon for multiple people at once (long limbs for maximum cuddling). Gets soft when Y/N chooses to nap on his chest while the others bicker.
- Low-key jealous of Tom (thinks he's too intense), but they bond over deep late-night talks.
Tom Riddle
- The intense, controlling one who doesn't do "casual" affection easily—but when he does, it's overwhelming.
- Views the group as his inner circle (Y/N as the heart of it). Rarely joins PDA, but watches with dark satisfaction. Pulls Y/N aside for private intense moments, then returns you marked/flushed for the others to see.
- The others tease him ("Tom, smile, it's not a cult"), but respect his boundaries. He softens the most around Y/N's laugh.
Blaise Zabini
- The smooth, laid-back flirt. Always smells amazing, always has the best playlists, always knows the vibe.
- Loves luxury group dates—picnics with fancy food, stargazing with charmed blankets.
- Casual touches: brushes fingers with everyone, calls Y/N "darling" in that velvet voice. Keeps the peace when egos flare.
Pansy Parkinson
- The unhinged bestie who keeps it real. She's ride-or-die for Y/N—does your makeup, drags you shopping, threatens anyone who hurts you.
- In the poly dynamic: Cuddles with Y/N platonically (or more if the vibe hits), calls the boys idiots affectionately.
- "If any of you hurt her, I'll hex your bits off." But she's the first to suggest group cuddles when Y/N's stressed.
Everyday Group Life Snippet Ideas
- Morning: Y/N wakes up sandwiched between Theo and Enzo, Mattheo making chaotic breakfast, Draco complaining about the mess, Blaise brewing perfect tea, Tom reading the Daily Prophet aloud dramatically, Pansy stealing your coffee.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to fall head over heels for a boy in your 6th year, let alone your brother’s broody best friend!
The plan for this year was simple; study, occasionally party, and prepare yourself to ace exams. Then, Theodore Nott was brought into the mix. You didn’t even know how it came to be this predicament, you hadn’t even payed him any attention the whole 6 years of knowing of his existence.
Of course you acknowledged Theo and his fairly good looks, who couldn’t, he literally had nearly the whole female population of the school fawning over his every move. But you weren’t like that! At least that’s what you previously believed.
To you, Theo had always just been another one of Matteo’s decently good looking friends, and that was it. Simple. But now.. all that clouded your mind was that handsome flirt known as Theodore Nott.
You guessed it must have started when Pansy and Blaize began dating. Although you and your brother were both in your respective friend groups, when the two love birds started dating, your friend groups began to merge. And along with that came Theo.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, that was until you began catching him occasionally with his eyes locked onto your figure, or the way he only seemed to tune into the conversation when your voice chimed in.
Of course this could all have just been random, little coincidences but you weren’t too sure and if you were being completely honest, you didn’t really want them to be?
So this was the situation you were in and where you stood in trying to explain your insane theories to your best friend.
“I don’t know Pans maybe I actually am delusional! But if I’m delusional that means that I must actually want it to be true! Oh Pansy please help me here!”
Your so called best friend couldn’t help but find the situation you were in somewhat amusing and she didn’t do her best at trying to hide it either.
“Calm down Y/n, you’re spiralling!” She warned, but it was quickly followed by a -not so well hidden- chorus of giggles.
“I’m sorry, really I am sorry!” She continued trying her best to regain her composure, “but I just can’t believe you fancy Theodore Nott! Your brother’s best friend!” She didn’t even attempt to conceal her giggles this time as she burst out laughing.
“It’s seriously not funny Pans!” You pleaded with her.“What if Matteo catches on, he would kill me for liking one of his friends! Especially his best friend!” You truly were spiralling now, but the whole situation you were currently in just baffled you completely. How have you managed to find yourself crushing on the notorious Theodore Nott?
“Okay, okay.” Pansy continued in an attempt to compose herself once more after her previous outburst.
“So you think Theo may perchance like you, and you definitely like him-“
“Pans! How is this helping?” You interrupted becoming increasingly embarrassed by the conversation at hand.
“Listen okay, there’s only one way to handle this.” You looked at her puzzled and clueless.
“You need to tempt him!” As soon as the words left her mouth you glared at her disapprovingly, this was not the help you were looking for and you knew that Matteo would be more than pissed if he discovered the plan she was hatching up.
“Pans no way in hell am I doing that! Do you realise I’m trying to de escalate the crush here!” You visibly grimaced at the use of the word ‘crush’, it made you feel like you were once again in first year writing love notes to boys who were probably more interested in becoming quidditch champions. To be fair, not much has actually changed between those 5 years and now with the male population’s priority’s.
“Look babes you can’t ignore love! Plus you and Theo would actually be such a cute couple.” This comment made your face quickly heat up and you felt redness creep up your neck once again.
“Whatever Pans, we need to get to breakfast.” You said in an attempt to deflect her previous comments.
And off the two of you went.
Once you arrived, you were immediately met with the greetings of both yours and your brothers friends, as due to the recent events of your best friend and her relationship status, her and Blaize were practically joint at the hip.
Deep down you kind of wished you had that connection with someone, maybe a particular someone. You soon realised your mind had began to drift and pushed those thoughts away while searching for a seat at the table.
To your utter horror, the only remaining seat was placed next to Theodore and you could barely even call it a seat, there was space for you to squish in ,maybe, but that would be extremely awkward.
As you were about to try and negotiate a seat with Pansy, a deep voice stopped you in your tracks.
“Come sit then Y/n. You look terribly lost there.” It was Theodore. And he was patting the space next to him without a care in the world, his signature smirk plastered onto his face. Oh how you had managed to fall for that smirk.
You guessed he could see the hesitance as you noticed a mischievous glint cross his eyes. This wasn’t going to go well.
You knew there was no way out of it and surely it couldn’t be that bad sitting pressed up against him. You weren’t even convincing yourself at this point and just decided to try and get it over and done with.
Slowly descending to meet Theodore’s level, you locked eyes and you could have sworn there was something there, but it was quickly masked with a look of indifference.
This wouldn’t be too bad after all then you thought.
Oh how you were wrong.
As soon as you got somewhat comfortable between Lorenzo and Theodore, you felt a firm grip on your thigh. The gesture was so small and hidden that nobody else seemed to notice. But the heat flowing through your body and raising to you face must have given something away.
“Are you alright there, Y/n?” Enzo asked nudging you from the side. You could feel Theodore’s eyes on you and that just made it that much harder to respond to Enzo’s worries.
“Fine!” You managed to squeak out. Once you realised this made you seem even more not fine, you managed to form a coherent sentence.
“I’m fine, thank you for asking, Lorenzo.” Feeling satisfied with you answer, he seemed to ease and responded with a quick answer.
“Awh, call me Enzo, love.” The nickname caught you slightly off guard and it must have done the same for Theodore as you felt his grip on your leg tighten ever so slightly. Theodore opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by your brother entering the room.
You wondered what Theo was about to respond with but the thought only lingered for a brief amount of time before you realised that Matteo, your dear brother, had managed to squeeze onto the bench right across from you and he could see right through any lie you tried to splutter out. Lucky for you, he was too distracted by Enzo’s ‘obvious flirtations’ directed your way.
“Who are you calling love?” He bit at the boy sat next to you, “because it better not be my sister.” Matteo had always been protective of you but he was just as clear that you should never make advances on any of his friends, especially due to all their reputations with relationships. This rule hadn’t been a problem until now.
You sat there silently surveying the confrontation when you heard Theo clear his throat from beside you. “Calm down there, Matt. She is her own person you know.” This was apparently not the right response and only seemed to anger your irritable brother further.
“Oh my apologies, I just don’t want my dumbass friends fucking my little sister.” Matteo replied with an incredulous look smothered across his face. “I’m not your little sister!” Which was completely true, you were twins and although the difference was only a few minutes, it could well be a few years with the way your brother treated you.
“You have no control over me or who I choose to fuck.” This statement gained you an audible gasp from all your friends and anyone else who was nosy enough to be listening in.
You could feel the vibration of Theo’s chuckle against your whole body and, oh, when did you become so addicted to that sound.
“What the fuck are you laughing at!” Matteo was now beyond pissed.
“Chill dude just let her do her own thing, it’s not like any of us would purposely fuck her over anyways.” The thought of Theo thinking about being in a relationship with you caused butterflies to form in the pit of your stomach mixed with the warmth of the fact he was standing up for you.
You swore Matteo was on the verge of combusting by the way he glared daggers into the boy sat beside you. “Yeah, and none of you will get a fucking chance to either!” He spat out like just the thought of it was paining him.
In an attempt to defuse the situation you spoke once more. “Okay, okay Matt we get it. You can calm down now, it’s far too early in the morning for this.”
He seemed to find that response somewhat acceptable and began descending into other conversations about quidditch strategies with Blaize, who was sat beside him. Glancing their way, you witnessed Pansy give you a devilish grin and a not so secretive wink.
Halfway through breakfast, Theo was yet to make conversation with you, although his hand still stayed firmly resting on your thigh. Pansy, the ever so nosy person she is, seemed to notice this and started conversation with you from over the table.
“So Y/n, have you thought about that date Cedric asked you out on yet?”
“What date?” Both Matteo and Theo questioned in concerned unison. Usually, you’d expect Matt to get suspicious of Theo for how quickly he responded but, luckily for Theo, he seemed too involved with the date Pansy had so helpfully brought up.
In all honesty, you were actually planning on declining the hufflepuffs invitation, but on further thought, and Pansy in mind, you decided maybe you should go. Ignoring the stares from the boys surrounding you, you answered your best friend with a firm “Yes, actually, I think I’ll go.”
Pansy’s grin grew wide while everyone else around you seemed to have the opposite reaction, but for once you didn’t care. Until you felt Theo release his grip on you and begin to stand. “Theodore, where are you going?” You sounded pathetic as you looked at him with pleading eyes but he seemed as if he couldn’t bare to look at you. “I’m going to lesson early” he grumbled but before you could question him further, he was gone.
bf!mattheo pretends he’s annoyed when you steal his hoodies, but secretly likes seeing you in them (and hexes anyone who points it out)
bf!mattheo constantly pulls you into his lap, no matter where you are, muttering “you’re mine” against your neck
bf!mattheo doesn’t trust anyone else with your safety—always walks you to class, even if it makes him late to his own
bf!mattheo is surprisingly good at remembering little details about you—your favorite sweets, how you like your tea, which quill you prefer
bf!mattheo is a jealous mess, but instead of blowing up, he gets quiet and stares daggers until the person backs off
bf!mattheo loves late-night study sessions in the library which usually end with him distracting you, whispering things that make you blush so you can’t focus
bf!mattheo absolutely melts when you play with his curls, but will never admit it out loud
bf!mattheo is the type to scrawl messy little notes on scraps of parchment and slip them into your bag (“don’t forget i love you”)
bf!mattheo, if you’re upset, won’t push you to talk right away- just pulls you into his chest and holds you until you’re ready
bf!mattheo's love language is definitely physical touch + acts of service- carrying your books, fixing your tie, brushing ink smudges off your fingers
NSFW: bf!mattheo has a thing for taking you apart slowly, whispering degrading pet names in your ear just to see you get all flustered, then flips into praise the moment you fall apart for him
NSFW: bf!mattheo loves marking you up—hickeys down your throat, bite marks on your thighs—so everyone knows exactly who you belong to
requests sent through my buy a coffee will be prioritized but ya girls broke and living off of monster energy so anything in general helps- Buy me a coffee <3
