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lovetaylorrussellgrr · 19 days ago

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the apothecary's rebel - mattheo riddle

summary: hogwarts' bad boy can't seem to find a way to stay out of the infirmary where you're working to become a healer, but as the stakes get higher, you struggle to understand if you're simply a means to an end, or something much more.

word count: 4k

warnings: mentions of severe injury, broken bones, blood, etc.

a/n: this is so tropey and i'm not sorry about it! credit as always to the lovely @pizzaapeteer who has definitively determined that mattheo's favorite quidditch team is the falmouth falcons, which i will faithfully honor in every fic that i write.

The first time you met Mattheo Riddle, he had rivulets of blood pouring from his nose, crimson and amber; it stained his white collared shirt and seeped into his emerald tie and dark robes but despite it, he was smiling, laughing actually as his eyes glinted at Professor McGonagall who was dragging him alongside her into the infirmary.

"Please, Professor" he implored, "I can't help myself when someone runs their mouth like that, I can't, it's like a curse or something, my fist just flew to his face, what was I supposed to do?!" He was smirking as he looked at her, but she ignored his gaze as she yanked him before you.

"Enough, Mr. Riddle!" she said shrilly.

He tugged his arm out of her grasp. "I don't need the infirmary, m'fine" he huffed, rolling his eyes.

"You're dripping blood on my floor" she retorted, pointing to the maroon spots at his feet.

He glanced down and then wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing the blood further across his face.

"Ms. YLN!" McGonagall said, making it clear that he was your problem now as she squeezed her eyes shut in aggravation then spun on her heels and left.

You stood from your desk at once startled and awed by the situation, but Mattheo's gaze followed McGonagall out of the room.

"M'fine, I don't need anything" he repeated as he continued to swipe at the blood that wouldn't stop running.

You begged to differ as you took in the gash on the bridge of his nose, and the early signs of a black eye. You handed him a cloth which he stuffed under his nose halfheartedly, barely glancing at you, and before you could do anything else, he jogged back to the doorway, peered around the corner and disappeared.

Your week went by without anything nearly as exciting occurring beyond the normal bumps, bruises, and burns from spells and potions gone awry before you saw him again, this time of his own volition.

He caught your eye as his large framed graced the doorway. He was dressed for quidditch, still in his shoulder pads and Slytherin practice jersey. His dark curls were windblown and his cheeks were flush with exertion; sweat glistened on his brow and you thought fleetingly to yourself that no one had the right to look that sweaty and that good at the same time.

You stood from your desk to approach him, eyebrow quirked when he held up his hand by way of explanation, where two of his fingers were bent the wrong way, clearly broken. You motioned wordlessly for him to sit on the nearest cot.

He sat and immediately focused his attention out the window, peering like he was hoping to see the quidditch pitch from his vantage point.

You gathered a few supplies and approached him and he thrust out his hand, eyes never leaving the window.

"Go on then, get it over with" he said shortly. "I wanna get back to practice."

Unbeknownst to you, he was no stranger to broken bones, nor the sharp, relentless pain that came with the healing process and he was doing everything he could to steel himself for it.

Your touch was warm and tender as your fingers gently examined his hand.

"What position do you play?" you asked.

"Beater" he said simply.

You handed him a dose of healing and numbing potion, which he chugged in one go, thinking briefly that it tasted much better than he remembered.

"Are you any good?" you continued as you took the vial back from him and continued your work on his fingers.

"Are you joking?" he asked, laughing humorlessly.

You shrugged innocently, a sly smile on your lips, though you never broke your focus.

"Yeah, I'm good" he said. "Best Slytherin has seen in a while. We might actually have a chance at the cup this year if Flynt can keep his head straight and Goyle can stay sober long enough to sit on his broom."

"A daunting task" you teased.

He laughed genuinely this time, your humor enough to garner his attention and break his gaze from the window as his eyes fell on you instead, and you could feel yourself flush under his notice.

"Harpies or Cannons?" you asked, trying to guess his favorite team.

"Falcons" he said, smirking at your knowledge of quidditch.

"My brothers root for Ballycastle, but I'm partial to the Magpies" you replied.

Now he was flat out impressed and had about a million questions for you, but just as he opened his mouth to ask them, you step back and smiled.

"You're all set!"

He thought you were joking until he looked down at his carefully bandaged fingers.

"You should be able to grip your broom just fine. Put some ice on it after practice if you can, otherwise it will hurt like hell when the potion wears off."

You were gathering your supplies as he wiggled his fingers with trepidation. He felt a dull ache, but nothing more, and he could easily grasp his broom despite his mended fingers with the unique way you'd wrapped them; it'd felt better than any mending he'd had before and whether it was your talent or the deft way you'd distracted him, he couldn't stop himself from muttering "S'bloody brilliant."

"Thanks" you said genuinely, feeling the heat return to your cheeks as you shot him a playful smirk of your own. "Best Ravenclaw's seen in a while" you teased, echoing his words from earlier before you walked back to your desk.

The rest of the afternoon you found your thoughts wandering between the books you were trying to study and the boy with dark curls and a smirky grin who seemed magnetized to mischief, how even the brush of your fingers against his strong, calloused hands had had you struggling to focus on healing, the very thing that came most naturally to you.

You were both happy and disappointed that you didn't see him soon thereafter, glad perhaps that he was keeping himself out of trouble and in one piece. You caught glimpses of him occasionally in the busy corridor between classes or in the Great Hall surrounded by his raucous group of friends, but you tried your level best not to stare, in turn missing his equally ardent attempts to catch your eye.

It was perhaps three weeks later that you awoke late on a Saturday night to a muffled pounding on your bedroom door. Bright moonlight shone through your curtained window as you struggled to get your bearings and the pounding relented, heavy and urgent.

Occasionally, Madam Pomfrey summoned you in an emergency and your heart trilled as you pulled a large sweater over your lace and silk pajamas. You moved quickly to open the door, only to find Mattheo slumped and leaning against your doorway.

He swung his head to look at you with noticeable effort and you couldn't hold in your gasp as you took in his face, scraped and dirty with a large cut on his eyebrow that you were already calculating would need stitches, and a smaller but sizable cut to match on his lip. His mouth was bloodied and the gash on the bridge of his nose was back.

"Gods, Mattheo" you whispered as you reached for him. "Let's get you down to the infirmary."

"S'four inthe mornin' m'not gonna explain to them why I looklike this" he said, his speech slurring as he moved to brush past you into your room.

"Can'tyou fix me n'here?" he asked, as he swayed and you moved to support his weight.

"I-I don't have what I need, I don't have any numbing potion..." you tried to say.

"Can't hurt more'n it already does" he huffed as he sat on your bed.

The sight of him there, rumpling your sheets caught every last word in your throat and you busied yourself grabbing what you could to buy time to still your racing heart.

"What happened?" you asked, finally.

"Me'n the boys got into one" he said, not offering more in the way of an explanation as he glanced around your room, making you feel exposed.

"And where are they?" you asked, glancing for a moment back at the door like they might follow him in.

"I wasn'about to drag five ofus n'here" he said with a smirk.

I wanted you all to myself he thought as he tried with significant effort to focus on you as you came to stand between his spread legs. Your sweater was falling off of your shoulder to reveal thin, silk pajamas that covered next to nothing; your hair was rumpled and wavy with sleep, giving you a relaxed and tousled look that had his mind racing with the image of you tangled in your sheets.

You held his chin softly in your hand, turning his head slowly to the right and to the left. You could smell firewhiskey on him, and could see the pupils of his eyes blown wide as they looked unwavering at you in a way that made your legs feel like jelly.

"You might have a concussion" you said quietly, focusing on the facts instead of the fantasy in front of you.

"Probably" he agreed, his voice thick and raspy.

Your eyes shifted from his strong gaze to focus on his hands, attentively wiping away the dirt, gravel and blood from his knuckles, your fingers running down his palms. His eyes fluttered, thinking you had no right to make him feel this good by touching his hands, and then immediately he thought about your touch anywhere, everywhere else.

You leaned further into him to attend to the cut on his eyebrow, softly whispering the spell to mend it, close enough that he could feel your breath against his skin and he closed his eyes in earnest, letting your words wash over him, calming him from what had been an intense and violent night; they didn't flutter open again until you gently touched his lip.

"Sorry, did that hurt?" you asked.

"S'other ways you could make it feel better" he said, smiling widely in way that set a twinkle in his eye.

"Very funny" you said, redoubling your efforts, without realizing that for once he wasn't joking.

He reached out a hand to grab your waist, attempting to pull you into him, but you mistook it for an effort to steady himself and set a hand on his shoulder.

With the amount of alcohol in his system you thought, there is little to no chance he remembers any of this.

Mattheo woke with a throbbing headache and for the life of him he couldn't piece together why his friends visibly looked like they'd lost a brawl, while he looked...fine; his hands and face were clean and his split lip and eyebrow were reduced to small cuts and scrapes, nearly healed.

He had a foggy memory, like a dream, of you tracing your fingers over his lip, a touch he retraced now like he could feel you on his skin, could feel your warmth from being pulled out of bed, and then he remembered how good you'd smelled, like vanilla and amber... Had he really gone to your room in the middle of the night? He would almost be embarrassed if he didn't feel so fucking smitten about it.

The group dragged themselves to breakfast, hoods drawn; Theo even sported an oversized pair of sunglasses, whether to cover his black eye or to abade his hangover, no one was sure. They were talking in rasp whispers about the night before when Mattheo caught sight of you leaving the Great Hall with a few of your friends, his feet moving on autopilot towards you before he knew what he was doing, breaking rank to his friends' bewilderment.

"Hey" he said, catching your attention. "I-uhh, thanks for last night, I guess" he smiled, even as he carded his hand through his hair, a bit abashed.

"I am genuinely surprised you remember any of it" you said, laughing.

"F'course I do" he said confidently.

"So, you'll keep your promise then?" you retorted as you cocked your head expectantly.

Promise? What fucking promise?

"Yeah, of course I will" he said, even as his mind drew a complete blank on what you were referring to.

Your eyebrows shot up as a wide smile graced your lips and you crossed your arms, ready to challenge him before you were interupted.

"—Wait, is this her?" Theo barged in, pushing Mattheo aside, the others following closely behind.

"Can she look at my nose?" Draco tried. "I think that fucker broke—"

"—No. Stop, stop it." Mattheo said, dragging them away from you gruffly as you laughed, waving to Enzo who was waving eagerly to you despite Mattheo's efforts to contain him.

Your cheeks were crimson. He'd told his friends about you.

That giddiness carried you throughout your day. You felt like you were floating from class to class, like a fifth house ghost, your spirits high even as you resigned yourself to the infirmary that evening while the rest of the school made their way to the quidditch pitch for the final game of the season, the House Cup: Slytherin versus Gryffindor.

A dark storm had settled over the mountains and the last of the sun disappeared behind large, black clouds that brought with them torrential wind and rain that you watched cascade in sheets against the windows. You were disappointed to be missing the game, missing the chance to watch Mattheo play, but you were also happy to be inside, dry and warm.

You settled into your book, trying your best to enjoy it, but you found yourself reading and re-reading the same sentence over and over again, unable to clear your mind from the night before, the way Mattheo settled effortlessly on your bed in a way that even now had your stomach clenching, the way his dark eyes followed you in the white moonlight, the way he smiled under caked blood and the warmth and softness of his skin and his lips under your fingertips; and finally the way he'd grabbed you, perhaps stronger than he'd intended, fingers pressing into the thin silk that covered you, leaving imprints on your skin. Your heart was racing and you felt warm at the memory as you set your book down and exhaled shakily.

It wasn't a moment later that you heard a commotion in the corridor, loud voices and shuffling feet before a large group burst through the doors, professors and students crowding around two quidditch players, the sight making your heart constrict in your chest, until you noticed a red jersey on one and the flash of Draco Malfoy's bright blonde hair on the other. You scurried to help guide him to a cot as he groaned, his eyes squeezing in pain as a gash on his forehead dripped blood down the side of his face.

"What the hell happened?!" you asked Professor Sinistra who had a deep frown set on her face.

"The storm is making it impossible to see anything, they should have cancelled the damn match" she said. "These two collided and there's another one coming - he tried to grab Malfoy and took a bludger straight to the knee before falling 60 feet to the ground."

Draco continued to writhe in pain in front of you and Professor Sinistra was still talking but she sounded distant, almost underwater, because dread and fear had settled over you. Somehow you knew before you turned around that the third player was Mattheo, and you glanced over your shoulder in time to see him being supported between Theo and Blaise.

He was limping on one leg as the other dragged uselessly beneath him. He was soaked through, his hair stuck to his forehead and his jersey stuck to his skin. He was covered in mud and his face was like stone, marble white as he stared sternly at a spot on the ground, jaw clenched.

You dropped what you had been doing, rudely brushing past Professor Sinistra and rushed to his side.

"Here, put him here" you said to Theo and Blaise, leading them to an empty cot.

"Nahh - fuck - get someone else" Mattheo said sharply in a way so cutting and raw that you froze, like his words had struck you like a charm.

"W-What?" you said as the boys lowered him to the bed, exchanging glances.

"You heard me YLN. Get someone else!" he said angrily, almost yelling.

You turned to face the rest of the infirmary which was in a state of utter chaos between the nurses, students and professors running back and forth; the raging storm outside cracked and boomed, setting you further on edge.

Tears welled in your eyes at how overwhelmed you were and how angry Mattheo was. Your head was spinning. Clearly he didn't care about you at all, you had been a convenience, a means to an end, someone who could patch him up when he was too drunk to go to the infirmary, and he'd used his good looks and charm on you like he did everyone else to get what he wanted. You had been an utter fool. Now his injuries were serious and he wanted someone with experience, not some girl to exchange flirty banter with.

Your eyes scanned the room again and you swiped angrily at your cheeks as several tears escaped.

"Well, there isn't anyone else, Mattheo" you said, the realization hitting you simultaneously that you were responsible for him.

He groaned in annoyance and threw his head back on his pillow, which Theo and Blaise thankfully took as their cue to go. You drew the curtains behind them, struggling to calm yourself, to get a semblance of control.

"You took a bludger to the knee?" you asked. "What else, where does it hurt?"

He was silent, face grimaced, refusing to make eye contact with you.

"Suppose I'll just have to undress you and find out for myself then?" you tried. But even that didn't work as he remained quiet and shame and embarrassment set over you.

You took a steadying breath and quickly wiped another errant tear away before approaching him cautiously, moving to unlace his boots as gently as you could, but even that caused him to tense. Delicately, you began to cut his trousers from the bottom and within three snips could you see a sicky swelling letting you know that this was bad....very bad. He'd well shattered his knee and likely broke his fibula and tibia too, his entire leg was a disaster. You had no idea how he'd remained so calm despite it all and you were worried that this might be too complex for you to mend.

You mixed him a strong healing and numbing potion and he took it from you wordlessly, gruffly. Gone was his bashful smile from this morning, the twinkle in his eye, it was like he wanted nothing to do with you, downing the potion in one go, still refusing to meet your gaze.

"Mattheo, I can't imagine how painful this must be, but I'll fix it, I-I promise" you said.

His eyes shifted darkly to you for only a moment, anger and distain clear in his gaze before he looked away again, never saying a word.

You applied just about everything you'd ever learned about mending bones, tendons, muscles and sinew and within moments of taking the potion, Mattheo had fallen into a deep sleep, allowing you to work without fear of hurting him further. It took the better part of two hours, by which time the rest of the infirmary had settled and Madam Pomfrey came to check on you. She was difficult to please, but she scrutinized your work with a sharp eye before complimenting you thoroughly, you had done it.

You were depleted, exhausted, both physically and emotionally but you didn't stop as you wiped the caked mud from Mattheo's cheeks and gingerly cut away the rest of his wet clothing, fearful he'd catch a chill, thinking you deserved some sort of medal for your level of professionalism as your fingers traced his strong muscles, veined arms and faded scars. You pulled a blanket over him, charmed to stay warm before you finally slumped into a chair at his side.

Your entire body was tense, and your muscles were sore. You let yourself catch your breath as your emotions finally caught up with you and you bit your lip to keep from crying at how foolish you felt.

Madam Pomfrey poked her head through the curtain. "You're free to go" she said quietly.

You glanced back at Mattheo before turning to her. "I think I'll stay...just in case" you whispered.

She pursed her lips knowingly before nodding curtly and walking back to her station at the far end of the room.

It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, but eventually you fell into a fitful sleep riddled with nightmares of falling into deep darkness with nothing and no one to catch you.

Mattheo came to in a haze, enveloped in a soft warmth that brought a smile to his lips; for some reason, it reminded him of you, and it smelled like you, like warm vanilla and amber spice. As if in a dream, a memory came rushing back to him, of another time he was engulfed by you, of feeling your gentle touch on his lips in a way that made them tingle even now.

"How'sthis" he said. "I promise if I'm ever this'fucked again, and you haveta take care o'me, I'll take you ona date?" Your eyes shot to his, shining against the moonlight streaming into your bedroom and he clocked the twitch of your lip, the rose of your cheeks, Gods how he loved to make you blush. "Yeah?" you said jokingly. "Yeah" he said, feeling confident. You refocused your attention on his lip, your touch soaking through him like sunlight. "Well, for your sake, I hope that doesn't happen, you're a mess" you chided. Then, quietly, "But for mine, I look forward to it."

His heart soared and he reached for you only to come back with empty hands. He continued to grasp for you until his eyes fluttered open and he realized where he was. The memory of the game came rushing back to him, the flash of thunder and lighting, the fear of seeing his best mate falling off his broom as he raced to grab him, and then the crunch and splitting pain of his knee shattering, the scream he'd let out that was drowned by the storm.

His stomach roiled as he relived the way his friends had dragged him back to the castle, how every bump of his foot felt like torture. He tensed now, waiting for the pain, nearly nauseating himself with the memories, but he felt...nothing. A dull ached radiated from his knee and it felt stiff, but the sharpness was gone, replaced with a pulsing warmth.

His eyes blinked in the low candlelight, coming to rest on you, curled uncomfortably in a chair next to his bed, and he realized he should have known, should have recognized that you were the constant peace on the other side of his pain.

You were asleep, but your face was scrunched in discomfort, in concern and he clocked the smudge of your eye makeup, the loose strands of your hair falling on your face, and the fact that you were wearing the same clothes from earlier this morning, when he'd made you smile. Now, you looked distraught, upset and his stomach clenched as he remembered the way he'd spoken to you.

He had been in so much pain and pain is weakness he could hear in his head over and over again as he'd tried unsuccessfully to fight it. She's going to think you're weak, pathetic. He didn't want to be weak in front of you, he didn't want you to see him that way. He was proud when you mended his busted knuckles, his split lip, or even his smashed fingers, you didn't need a weak, crying git. But then he remembered the crushed look on your face as he'd yelled at you, and he realized he'd been a git all the same.

"Hey" he said, his voice coming out quieter than he'd intended, scratchy with sleep.

"Hey" he tried again.

You woke, startled. "Are you alright?" you asked, bolting upright in your chair, setting a hand on his arm. "Here, let me check your—"

"—I'm fine" he said, laughing. "More than, actually."

"Oh" you said, settling back down. "Good."

A moment of tepid silence passed between you.

"Look, m'sorry about earlier" he said, his sleep ridden voice coaxing your eyes to meet his as he opened his hand on the bed beside him, stretching it out for yours.

You hesitated, pursing your lips, and he could tell you were hurt.

"Can you keep a secret?" he tried.

You nodded.

"That fucking hurt, a lot" he exhaled as he let his vulnerability show.

"That's not really a secret. You shattered your knee, fibula and tibia, Mattheo, and you also have three bruised ribs and two more broken fingers" you said, pointing to his other hand.

"Well, would you look at that" he said smartly, twiddling his fingers back and forth.

"Draco cried harder over a hairline fracture, you'd have thought he was dying" you laughed quietly as you rolled your eyes.

Mattheo let out an earnest laugh at that before he grabbed his side.

"Do not tell him I said that—"

"—I am absolutely telling him you said that!" he said cockily as you both laughed until you fell into silence again.

He opened his palm again and you moved closer, setting your hand in his, which he enveloped in his warm grasp, gently rubbing a thumb over your fingers.

"I didn't want you to think I'm weak" he said finally, the truth settling over both of you like a blanket.

"Pain isn't weakness, Mattheo" you said simply, and the fact that in one instant you had understood exactly what he had meant had his dark chocolate eyes locked on yours.

"And anyway" you continued, "you don't have a weak bone in your body, your pain tolerance must be through the roof."

He didn't have the heart to tell you he hurt just like everyone else, he'd just had more practice with it, so he shrugged.

"Well all things considered, I feel great... thank you" he said, twirling your fingers together before tugging them gently, pulling you to sit on the bed beside him, close enough to feel the warmth between you. "I do have a couple of complaints though."

Your eyebrow quirked, suddenly serious.

"You got me nearly naked here before I could take you on that date I promised, hardly seems fair" he smirked.

You blushed, opening your mouth to defend yourself. So he did remember after all you thought.

"I'm kidding" he said lightly. "But start thinking about where I can take you. A promise is a promise."

You couldn't hide the smile on your face even as you tried, glancing into your lap, your cheeks Mattheo's favorite shade of blushed red.

"And what else?" you asked, trying to deflect.

"You missed something. I think I fucked my lip up, real bad" he said.

Your eyes twinkled as they looked at him, glancing briefly at his perfect lips, free from any mark or mar.

"I don't know, I don't see anything" you said, jokingly, taking his face in your hand, pretending to examine him.

"C'mon, c'mere you've got to get closer" he teased, pulling you into him, so your noses were nearly touching, your heart pounding in your chest.

He paused, relishing the moment, letting his fingers trace a line from your cheek to your jaw, letting your lips hover a breath away from his before he cupped your face and closed the distance between you.

He kissed you tentatively, softly, with a tenderness that made every inch of you feel like melted honey but it was only a breath before his restraint broke, intoxicated by you and every moment he'd daydreamed about the way you'd feel against him, the way you'd taste as he cupped both sides of your face and pulled you further into him. You grasped for purchase as the blanket between you slipped revealing his bare chest and you wound your arms around his bare shoulders, tangling your fingers into his hair, eliciting a muffled moan from deep within him. You nibbled his lip playfully before you pulled back, and he grasped you harder, fighting the distance.

"How's that?" you asked, breathlessly.

"Still unbearably painful, gorgeous, keep trying" he smiled against your lips before kissing you again.

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lovetaylorrussellgrr · 22 days ago

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She will be loved

Sum: Reader is hopelessly and madly in love with her best friend Mattheo while constantly having her heart broken living in the shadows of other girls. Unaware that he’s hiding a secret and unable to express the truth about how he feels for her too. Wc: 8.7 k

Warn: This is part one, as it was so long, I decided to break it up. angst, (V angsty I guess), fluffy, use of Ace nickname, one mention of blood, bit of y/n in there, swearing - you will probably be unhappy with Mattheo in this part. Eli, Everly and the eloquent editorial are all made up by me.

A/n: inspired by the song she will be loved for my delayed milestone!!! (apologises for those who have been here since april ilysm!!) I also listened to butterflies which I think encapsulates their relationship more! dividers from here & here 🩵

You watch with eyes peering over the book, keeping yourself conspicuous while your heart clenching once again at the way he talks to her. The arrogant smirk, the subtle touches and sultry words that leave his sweet lips, and she’s caught hooked as he digs his fangs into another victim. Bagging another venture for some late night plans, watching the way his hands squeeze her hip in farewell before he turns and his eyes shift their gaze.

Dark and brooding, his eyes scan through the crowds of students like an eagle targeting its prey before they relax set on you. As he makes his way ambling towards, his eyes soften, his lips curving upwards, at the crouched position you sat. You avert your gaze downwards to the words you’ve continuously reread appearing busy on his arrival.

His fingers hook over the spine of the book, pulling it down to see your sweet face. “Hey there Ace.”

With nowhere to hide, you drop the novel and grin up at him. All feelings of hurt wash away as you greet your best friend. “Hi Matty.” His lips curl scoffing at the nickname, with an over dramatic eye roll, and he plants himself beside you with exhaust, leaning back into the bench seat.

“You know I hate that damn nickname. It’s not a good representation of me. You’re going to scare off my prized possessions with the softness.” His lips mumble out, pursuing a cigarette between them, his hands covering the end to light it.

It’s your turn to roll your eyes at his careless habit, “and you know I hate when you smoke. Can’t win every battle.” You ignore his comment about the girls he likes to collect as trophies. It’s easier if you pretend your feelings for him don’t exist.

His eyes light up in amusement at the remark, “Touché little Acey.” Pulling back the cigarette, he playfully blows his next exhale in your face, making you fan it with your book. A deep chuckle cascades out of him smooth like honey, and you swoon internally as it vibrates from his body to yours.

His eyes stare off into the distance, thinking for a moment, and you take the time to study his features. Something you often did, unable to help yourself from admiring the boy you loved. He was gorgeous. But of course he knew that, and so did every other girl in school.

Sometimes you wonder how life would be if you had never stumbled upon the then frightened boy hidden out in the wooden dockyards. If the two of you had never bonded so closely, then maybe you would have had a chance with him, too.

Despite sharing similar trauma, one of the mainframes of your relationship, you still felt he was holding back. Not that he couldn’t trust you, but someone who has gone without love for so long, struggled with giving it and even harder to receive it without any doubt.

It brought him comfort knowing you would always be there for him, always when he was in trouble, a helping hand, a guiding light. At times, he felt like you were the only one he could go to.

For you, it was a curse and a blessing. You loved him truly as a friend always. But something lay deep beneath those friendly feelings, a growing sensation that burned in your heart.

It cut deep to know Mattheo was hurting too, every time he would lie quietly in your arms. A homely embrace that often was the only way he could fall asleep, the treacherous nightmares finally blurring away into nothing but distant dust particles. He’d never been fully able to express the gratitude he held for you being in his life, in how you made him feel seen like he finally was someone of importance and not for his lineage.

Someone who mattered and deserved to be loved. Even if he continued to suffer in denial over his conflicting thoughts about you as more than a friend, that kind of emotion never came easy for him to express. He’d freeze up as if Medusa herself had flashed her eyes, turning him instantly to stone. His palms clammed up, heart slowed and in the end he’d brush it off with a joke and bury those ambivalent feelings.

But the way he felt for you was nothing like anything he’d ever experienced for anyone. You were kind and compassionate, with a heart of pure gold; the complete opposite of him. As far as he believed. He cared for you like you were kin, a treasured item with the utmost value, and it was his duty to protect. It was the only way he knew how to articulate those weakened feelings, soft thoughts of vulnerability taught to hinder.

So he acted like a dragon, almost guarding you fiercely, and sometimes a little cold even to you by being overprotective. His loyalty and possessive nature grew stronger over your years at Hogwarts. The fear of destruction lingering behind every action, spiking his anxiety controling him like a puppet on a string, the dread of losing you dangling dangerously.

If something were to happen and he was the one to watch your bright flame flicker and extinguish because of the chaotic whirlwind that is his life, he’d never forgive himself. It didn’t matter anyway, he had all but virtually convinced himself that you felt nothing for him but brotherly love. So he kept you at a distance, not allowing anything to fester outside of platonic.

His eyes dark and contemplative glimpse down the corridor, admiring the newest gaggle of girls who flocked, his hair moving with the calm breeze that floats through the concrete archways. Students bustle around between the transfiguration courtyard, moving with enthusiasm for what the weekend brings as classes wrap up for the day. You can't tear your eyes off how he checks them out despite already scoring a date for later. Your jealousy is so potent it's a good thing he can’t smell it.

You knew he was wounded, seeking enrichment and attention through women. A way to fill his emptiness from the absence of love he sought. It stung he’d never considered you an option, someone willing to open his doors, to melt the hardened rock that caged his heart, to patch it up with a warmness he deserved. But maybe it was your fault for always being available, too in reach, desperate for any time he threw your way. Mattheo loved the chase and if he was a dog, you were about as exciting as a flobberworm.

He was a boy with a broken smile, and to most it seemed to only stretch wider when you were near. You felt it too, feeling like the two of you shared something special, but nothing ever changed, nothing more ever came. And so you were stuck with just watching from afar as he broke your heart, shattering it into tiny grains of sand slipping through your fingers into an hourglass. That turned over and over at each new glimpse of hope, an endless time loop that had you feeling useless.

“I saw you got partnered in potions with that Badger boy. How’s that going?” His voice slices through your thoughts, redirecting your mind to the present, and you blink away the tattered heartbreak. His eyes are now observing you, lips sucking in the nicotine he badly craves, before his head falls to flick the butt against the seat.

You don’t catch his own undertone of jealousy laced in his curiosity, for it wasn’t odd of Mattheo to pay attention to how guys acted around you. You were, after all, someone significant to him. “Oh Eli? yeah, he’s fine. We’ve got plans to study in the library this weekend.”

“You can’t. We have plans.” He rebuttals hastily, his voice low with a hint of seriousness that means don’t push him. His eyes study your reaction, letting out a drag before he continues, “Come on, I think it’s time I owe you that trip to Hosgmeade together. I know how badly you want to go.” He raises a brow, flashing you a boyish grin, his seriousness simmering with hopes of convicing.

The suddeness in which he jumps at your long ago suggestion, one you’ve been pestering him about for weeks. The one always met with a shrug and a sheepish sorry-excuse decline that he has other things planned. A small frown forms in confusion, till you toss the idea over and the mere idea that he’s finally free to go with you overturns the doubt and you mirror his smile, excited and giddy.

The idea now blooming in your chest of spending a whole weekend with Mattheo. His smile widens at the fact he knows you so well, and he gets you out of your plans. “Okay, yeah, I’m sure Eli won’t mind waiting. We were getting ahead of ourselves, anyway.”

The day spent in Hogsemade went fast, a wonderful speed drive of hyper adrenaline that radiated deep in your chest. It was a dream, everything you’d imagine a date with Mattheo would be like. Which was a problem, because this most definitely wasn’t a date.

Mattheo was a notorious charmer. For someone who grew up with unusual and pratically zero social contact, he was surprisingly quick on his feet. He knew the way to sweep and woo a girl with the subtlety of a chameleon, and the ability to match anyone's aura as easily as alternating his colours.

His courteous and considerate nature was at large all day, making sure your basket was full of every Honeyduke flavoured candy, to reaching for magical assortments on the highest shelf in Zonkos. All little thoughtful things that had made you woozy with delusion and a pounding heart that rang out like smashing symbols repeatedly.

Mattheo, though he might never admit it, was always subtly paying attention to you. You were his best friend, and he wanted to keep you near, concealing his longing gazes with reasons of just being defensive. A part of him felt responsible to repay you in the best way he knew how, if not with words of gratitude - avoiding ripping down the robust fortress that protected his vulnerability - he’d be there in other ways that held less hardship on him.

When he excuses himself to the bathroom in the three broomsticks, you decide best to wait outside the inn for him. Huddling near the entrance underneath the roof that overhangs, the last stop of your outing before the two of you head back up to the castle as the afternoon sun sets. The minutes tick by slowly, making you apprehensive and irked, wondering what’s taking him so long. Peering back through the dusty windows, you find the cause of his delay.

He’s nested at the far back of the pub close to the bathrooms, but he’s no longer alone. Swarmed by a couple of girls stalling his exertion of returning to you, though he’s chatting away to them happily as if he has all the time in the world. The usual bitter feelings of neglect and redundancy rise, stirring the once settled butterbeer, now threatening to creep back up and paint the windows.

Turning around with a heavy heart, you lean back on the cool panels, taking a shaky breath to control the hurt you feel. It's not the first time he’s done it, throwing you aside temporarily, replacing you with something more shiny and alluring to him. You’re almost certain he doesn’t do it purposefully, he just gets swept up in having positive attention on him, and well with girls, it's always favourable.

As time turns, those grains of sands sift further through the gap in the hourglass, questioning with logic why you're not just barging in and yanking him out by the ear. The bell goes signalling the exit of customers, and you turn in hope only to find yourself planted in the middle of a loud, deafening talkative group of Gryffindor boys. Alarmed, you step back, attempting to save yourself from being flattened by the load of them as they mingle past you.

Giving polite smiles to the passing lads, you wait patiently, till there's only left still holding the door in offering. He’s easily recognizable with his towering height and his signature kind smile, one that has you feeling as if a thousand rays of sunlight were glowing from deep inside your body, leaving you feeling warm and cozy.

Dean widens his grin, finding yours utterly gorgeous. “Going in right?”

Nodding absentmindedly, you still don't move, a little frozen by his dazzling smile. “Uh huh.”

He tilts his head, studying curiously, his expression shifting into an amused smirk. “You alright y/n?”

“She’s fine. She’s with me.” Mattheo’s voice grabs your attention as he finally appears at the doorway, coldly shoving past Dean, his eyes narrowing into unpleasant slits meeting the Gryffindor's eye. A silent warning that he’s walking a thin line into deathly territory talking to you when he’s present.

He falls back in his place, slinging an arm over your shoulder protectively, and steers you away from the pub without another word to Dean. Looking back, you give a brief goodbye smile to Dean before your undivided attention returns to Mattheo.

“What did he want?” He grumbles, walking with a quicken pace much faster than your legs can keep up with.

“Nothing. He was just leaving the pub too.” Mattheo’s eyes are distant, flickering back between the cobblestones and the castle emerging in the distance.

“What took you so long?” You push for a truthful answer, watching his reaction carefully.

He shoots you a glare, though he can’t help the boyish smirk that shines through. Despite knowing he had made you wait longer than needed, he’ll bend the truth to avoid admitting a fault.

He pulls you in closer with his arm, “I just got stopped by some classmates, no big deal. Quit overthinking Ace.” He ruffles your hair with childlike mannerisms and your nose scrunches, feeling babied, the constant reminder that he sees you as nothing more than a sister.

Contrarily, Mattheo’s mind still lingers on seeing your dazed look radiating from the simple act of kindness Dean had shown you. Defensively, he assured himself that it's probably nothing; you were just being your friendly self.

He swallows, the bitter taste rising, promising himself he wouldn’t let you out of his grasp. You were precious to him. He wouldn’t allow anyone unworthy to take up a moment of your time, and a lousy shithead, Gryffindor, definitely didn't tick the box.

The next few weeks pass in a blur, the seriousness of the potions assignment weighing down on you and Eli. The two of you had worked together seamlessly, coordinating portions of the workload evenly to one another and sharing ideas and discussions together to get it done efficiently.

In the time since working on the Antidote for Veritaserum, Eli and you had grown closer together, strictly platonic. A routine was beginning, finding yourself commonly buried in the library working alongside one another more often than not with an intellectual mutualism.

It was nice to find a common interest with someone outside of Mattheo, as he wasn’t the biggest fan of studying. His interest in it was minimal. Being naturally smart, he found the absence of it didn’t alter his grades and more so a waste of time. Not to mention he had a multitude of other talents that he believed were superior to the education of most Hogwarts classes.

Mattheo wasn’t entirely fond of your new friendship with the puff, stuck in a loop of eye rolls and grumbles when you would escape away from him to the library. Even though he had concluded that Eli was an unworthy and pitiable threat, the idea of your attention suddenly being split from him nagged at the back of his head.

Call him selfish, but with the long history and close bond the two of you shared, he had always felt you were his. His friend, his study partner, his number one supporter at quidditch games, his go to for advice, his favourite person to pester lovingly, to sneak up on or make you laugh so hard tears would stream down your adorable face. He might have not fully comprehended his feelings, continuing to act as though you were nothing more than a friend. But he was still loyal to that possessive idea, and he didn’t want anyone else taking his treasure away.

He had managed so far to brush off his imaginary jealousy for your attention, not wanting to appear clingy or needy for it. Two traits he despises with deep, pure hatred. Never wishing to be associated with the dread of appearing weak or desperate, haunted by his past punishment.

Especially for something so pathetic as this. They had no place in his heart.

His line of vulnerability was already thin enough, and you barely just crossed it being his best friend. But that was when he had the safety net of darkness, all the lights off where he could release a heavy sigh from his chest and into your embrace. In the middle of the night, where it was silent and the only noises were the colliding beats of your hearts and mingled breaths, a world for just the two of you.

Or the occasional times when he’s too drunk to coherently fulfill his plans of hooking up with someone. He’ll find himself outside your dorm as if the hallway is lit with a thousand glowing signs guiding him. The intensity blares his vision, and he’d stumble with his hand lifting to block them. They shine with hope and all things good as he makes his way into your room. Calling your name into the dark, a voice filled with contentment arrived at the epitome of a home.

“Matty?” Bedsheets ruffle and a soft glow illuminates the room at the switch of your lamp, which he profoundly protests at.

“Noooo, turn the light off.” He shields his eyes, still feeling the blur from his invisible imagery, and flops down on your bed. You groan at the pressured weight of him half collapsing on top of you and the vivid stink of his alcohol infused breath, his hands coming to constrict around you in a tight squeeze. “Ace! Turn the light off.”

Grumbling with irritation, you flick the lamp off and sigh heavily under the weight, but when he mumbles a slur of incoherent words to you, the anger melts away. Bringing the familiar soothing hand to his head, your fingers rack through his curls and he sighs peacefully.

“S‘good to me, Ace.” He pushes himself up further into the bosoms of your chest, his arm dangling heavily over your shoulder and his own fingers tickle the nape of your neck. “Don’t know what I'd do without you.”

His words cause that familiar churn in your heart, even with the understanding of where his words pull from, you can’t help but ache pining for more. As usual, you say nothing to reflect the desperate truth and continue to be only a good friend for him. Comforting him as he spills drunk, vulnerable babbles one after another till he succumbs to the sleep he so severely needs.

And when the morning light shines and wakes him from his slumber, he’d give you the smallest of an indebted smile, that broken smile begging to be loved - a boy clinging to the one radiant thing in his life, completely convinced he’s reached the peak fulfilment of love confined to never earn it romantically before he’s back to the overconfident composed boy with a secret so big he might break if it spills.

Dean, like Mattheo, was stuck on the interaction, daydreaming about the small, fond moment he shared with you. How your smile had warmed your face with a radiance unlike any other he’d seen before and while he knew who you were, he wanted to further that acquaintance. Perhaps friends, though Dean wished for better luck than that.

When he had heard through the grapevine that Eli, his closest Hufflepuff friend - for the mere bonding over the muggle football club, West Ham - had grown and started a routine studying session with you twice a week. He practically leaps at the chance and the boy to let him tag along, with N.E.W.T.S drawing nearer he found himself cumulative by stress and wanting to buckle down.

“Eli! El- wait up.” Surprisingly, the measly boy had a speed like a roadrunner, zipping his way along the hallways up the grand staircase, causing Dean’s larger body to mutter a substantial amount of ‘excuse me’ before he catches up grasping the puff's shoulder. “Bloody hell, you’re fast.”

“Oh hey Dean, where’d you come from?” Eli turns, smiling once he recognizes his friend.

“Just got out of DADA with the Slytherins, anyway I wanted to ask if I could join your next study session. Seamus is snoring a lot and talkin' in his sleep. It's driving me mental mate. I’m so behind on my workload.” Dean huffs out his worries, hoping it seals the deal.

Eli's smile just widens, nodding, “Course! The more the merrier, I'm sure y/n won’t mind. It's just the two of us, anyway, so there's plenty of room on the table!”

Dean grins, pleased, “Cheers, mate.” He presses a bit for further info on you. “So, what’s she like? y/n I mean.” He leans against the banister as the stairwell churns, moving upwards.

“Nice, very nice. She’s super smart too, wouldn’t be able to cover half the material without her…” Eli watches Dean’s expression, noticing the highly engrossed look, and raises a brow with a small laugh. “Is this some sort of set up?”

“W-hat-what? No course not. I need help, really.” Dean smiles widely, trying to appear less suspicious, though he’s not lying. Getting to spend time with you is just a bonus. A very nice bonus.

The library is packed with students, squeezed into every nook and crevice, stressed for the upcoming last few weeks before exams. The table you and Eli accommodated no longer resembled one of dignity—scattered with papers, books, quills laid out among the extra assortments of snacks and water.

“So still cool if my mate joins us today? Seamus is driving him mental! He told me his accent has thickened stronger and he can barely understand him.”

Shaking your head in a no, you laugh at the idea of Seamus Flingans Irish accent becoming more incoherent with how you already struggled to make out what the poor boy was saying. The absence of your usual sleeping routine alters your ability to make the connection of who Seamus’s friend was.

He’s hard to miss when he comes bounding round the towering shelves that lined the interior of the library, with a clear height on himself. His head topples over the other students, beelining towards the two of you. That same contagious smile graces his face, lighting the browns of his eyes to warm ambers and he offers a friendly wave.

“Blimey! The library is bloodyfull today. I’ve never seen so many students here at once.” His voice is smooth and lulling, filled with an enthusiastic kick that zaps the sleep right out of your body.

You sit leaning your head in your palm, nodding in agreement at his observation. “Yeah, cram studying, I guess.”

He grins, opening his books, and takes the moment to glance appreciatively at you. “Nice to see you again, y/n.”

A warm glow of pink flashes under your skin and you nod, “Yeah, you too, Dean.”

Eli watches, noticing the small flustering effect the two of you seem to have on one another, giving Dean an eye, who shoots him one back, telling him to keep it cool. Dean rubs the back of his neck, trying not to gaze too long at you. He hadn’t been into another girl since Ginny Weasely had dumped him for Potter, leaving him gutted and shocked. So spending time slowly easing in with you felt nice compared to the drama of endless fighting he’d had endured with his ex.

The longer the two of you work alongside one over the weeks of sessions, Dean can’t help himself crushing a little deeper on you. The way you talk about your passions with so much enthusiasm, his own face can't help but match your ecstatic smile. He finds you listen well, and he gets to match his own excitement about quidditch and football. The two of you often get distracted chatting about your interests, with Eli having to rein your focus back in.

His warm brown eyes have a habit of igniting the deepest red upon your cheeks and your hands suddenly can’t stop playing with your hair. It feels odd and completely different to how you feel with Mattheo. You find you can’t take your eyes off of him wanting to be the one to see that pearly smile and hear his deep chuckle.

The feeling is refreshing and his attention feels reciprocated, which only makes you glow brighter. For every time you glance at him, he’s already staring back with a slight twinkle, like he finds amusement in your shyness.

Though there’s a part of you that aches with betrayal, with disloyalty, like none other than Mattheo has thrown a cold bucket of water at you. The conflicting rising affections for Dean begin to sprout vines along the already fortified stone wall Mattheo has set inside your heart.

If only you could merge the traits of both boys to make the perfect specimen. You’d take Mattheo’s charm, those moments of compassion he saves for you and the ability to make you laugh even on your darkest days. Added with Dean's patience, kind nature and positive outlook on life and Voilà, you’d never have to deal with these frustrating thoughts again, which have made your head throb.

You decide its best to keep the feelings at bay, under observation and stick to only friendly interactions with Dean outside of sessions. A kind wave in the halls, or a smile over breakfast at the far away tables. It’s not like you want to unravel a new crush to blossom, you just want Mattheo that’s always been true.

But you know you won’t be able to contain the feeling for long. The desperate yearning for attention, for something real and that’s only yours.

The latest bulletin publication in Hogwarts’s eloquent editorial, engrossed the topic of witnesses spotting the popular band Weird Sisters and their crew arriving down in Hogsmeade, sparking school wide chatter. For many, the band hadn’t been seen since the Yule Ball, and their next gig performing this weekend for eighteen plus only made it even more exclusive.

Everywhere you walked the whispers about the wicked gig breezed whispering in your ears, between classes, to the common room and down to the great hall. Where you sat pressed up to Mattheo, the news making this evening's dinner even more packed. He shoots you an amused grin, watching how you struggle to eat your dinner without your elbows flying up.

He lowers the left one, near missing his jaw, and chuckles, “Fuckin hell Ace, trying to finally land a blow to me, huh.”

Embarrassed, you tuck your arms inwards, instantly giving a light apology, thinking up new tactics for how to cut your steak. His laugh only deepens, and he reaches over grabbing the cutlery, “Let me you damn klutz.” You watch his hands grip the silverware, his veins popping prominently under the flex of his movements.

It's hard not to daydream whenever he’s sweet and considerate like this, imagining a life with him away from all the trauma. The two of you, a life of your own, him cutting you dinner and you as his loveable wife. But it’s really watching his hands go to work that makes your mind wander a little more down the lane to the bedroom.

“Want me to feed you too, Ace.” His teasing question interrupts your hopeless fantasy, causing a flush to break rising your neck, and you laugh rolling your eyes at his playful antics. He grins, matching you, glad to know you can always take a joke from him. He puts the cutlery down, his eyes twinkling with lively energy, the spark that makes him feel like himself.

“Just checking, ya know, cause you looked like you were drooling.” An adorable smirk graces his face, watching for your reaction.

Another wave of heat adorns your cheeks and you have to thank Merlin that there are candles in the hall concealing your clear flustering. “Shut up, you sod.”

Reaching over to steal a potato from his plate, you pop it in your mouth and scrunch your nose at him in displeasure. “You little thief. Where are your manners, Ace? And no ‘thank you’ either.” His face feigns disapproval, arching a brow like a disappointed father. His once charming eyes stare down with an intensity that halts your breath.

As subtle as you can you bite your lip and frantically search your mind that's currently occupied in a foggy haze under your aroused state. A multitude of inappropriate names and answers filter to the forefront of your brain, like a slideshow that practically screams ‘You’re horny for your best friend!'

When the words finally find you, you thank Merlin, again, for the rational part of your brain and utters a sarcastic response. “Sorrrry your highness, thank you for your cutlery knight ship.”

He reacts with an eye roll of his own, stealing a potato of yours back, his full cheeks bearing his own cheeky grin. Watching you laugh, he questions the habit of having noted the brief second your teeth had sunk into your lips, something you only did when nervous or in thought. A habit he undeniably loves, only wishing it was his lips you were so sensually nipping.

“You giving me attitude now, little brat?.” He grabs your head into a tight headlock, rustling his knuckle into the crown of your hair, envisioning putting you in your place in an alternative method.

Your laughs echo around the large hall and you swat at him, shoving a hand up into his face, making him groan in protest. “Watch those grubby fingers! Gonna poke my eye out.”

“Well, stop messing up my hair!” The constant back and forth of your argumentative banter continues until dessert appears and you make a truce for the tradition of sharing a banana split.

“So.. you heard about the gig?” You ask, easing into the next conversation, one you’ve been contemplating since this morning. Heading down to the village on a Saturday night is customary to have a date, especially for an event such as this.

Mattheo takes another spoonful of his ice cream, humming in acknowledgement at the topic. “Yeah, it should be entertaining. Kind of hoping to use it as an excuse to finally get that stuck-up bitch Everly, to at least let me get to second base. No offense.. to women.” He adds.

You should be ticked off about the comment, but you’re completely transfixed on the way your heart has fallen out of your chest. It's laying right there on the ground, a knife shoved in the centre and then it pops like a balloon and the remaining sand runs out of it. Biting back the tears, you give a small nod as he meets your eye, watching as he goes about like nothing has happened, offering you the last bite.

Mattheo raises a brow, offering a kind smile, though he’s watching the way you seem as usual indifferent about his forward encounters. The casual standby and unbothered appearance tightens his chest knowing you don’t care what he does with girls. It breaks him never getting a real reaction, and only fuels his conclusions regarding you only seeing him platonically.

It pains him to utter the next few words, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t tag along, of course. You know I'd never ditch my number one girl.”

Number one girl is right, sitting in your rightful place on top of the podium of his heart. And yet he can never give you the medal just for being here. In his presence, he can never tell you how he truly feels. But it's the next words he hears that cause him critical heart palpitations.

You shake your head, declining his offer to friend zone you, refusing to be the awkward tag along while he gets his dick wet. Thus you lie. “No, it’s alright. I just wanted to ask in case you didn’t. I actually have one-”

“You have a date?” He cuts you off with a little hostility.

The sharpness of his interrogation takes you back, shutting your mouth, eyes fixed on how his one's narrow skeptically. Your brows furrow together with offense. Does he not think you could get a date? Though it's true you don’t have one, he doesn’t know that, so you lie again. “Yes.”

“Who?” The one word spits bluntly.

A loud scoff of disbelief falls from your lips at his audacity to not ask, but demand an answer. Rolling your eyes, you look out around at the other houses, buying yourself time to think of a partner. You spot Dean who meets your gaze and offers a friendly wave.

Mattheo observes, his eyes darkened and fixed on where you look. No fucking way. He looks between you and back to Dean, feeling an upchuck of jealousy gurgle in his stomach. The clocks churn, working overtime to filter through his memories. The same dazed smile you cast to him in Hogsmeade reflects on your expression as you wave back.

“Him?! Dean Thomas asked you?”

How could he not have seen this? All this time he’d been dismissing the notion that he had nothing to worry about, and then it clicks like the last piece of the puzzle. Wherever Eli was, Dean was, too. Every trip to the library he had blown off as just another geek session with your Puffle friend, that slick son of a bitch got you in effect alone. The only place Mattheo wouldn’t dare go. His fists clench, shake with a raging adrenaline and he eyes you hard, waiting for a good reason for this illogical decision.

Shit. Catching Mattheo’s expression from the corner of your eye, your muscles tense, afraid to face him full on. His tone laced with accusation as if you’ve committed treason, which in his eyes it's far worse than that.

But seeing how ticked he is, and the lingering thought that maybe, just maybe, he’s jealous drives you to lie again. “Yes, he did.”

When you meet his eye finally, they’re clouded with a dark, fiery intensity, not detecting any hesitation in your answer. He’s up instantly and you grab his arm to tempt him back down. “Mattheo sit down-“

“Need to have a word with that fucking lowlife. What was he thinking asking you?!”

You. The way he spits the word with animosity causes a deep frown to appear. Was he really that disturbed for you to have a date? Knowing it’s most likely from his short circuit brain reacting with brute protectiveness doesn’t exactly ease your thoughts. What made you so unloveable for you to be forbidden to spend an evening with someone outside of Mattheo? While you felt regret for falsely informing him, the aggravation of his skepticism bruises your heart more and pushes you to defend yourself.

Pulling on his arm harder, you rebuttal with strength, almost sneering the words out of ache. “I can go to a gig with whoever I want. Not sure why you care so much if you have your own date.”

His jaw clenches with a stubbornness not willing to explain his reasonings, sensing the growing tension brewing between you two. He huffs agitated, “That’s besides the point-”

“-I don’t need protection. You don’t need to baby me.”

He can see that you’re not allowing room for argumentation, his eyes tinting with dark coldness swallowing his bitterness. He’s not used to this kind of hostility from you, and while he feels a wave of pride, he can’t wrap his head around you getting angry at him over the sake of a Gryffindor.

"Whatever. I don’t have time for this shit.” He pushes past you, leaving you aghast and hurt.

“Matt-” His name dies on your tongue, watching him retreat without any remorse. You release a deep sigh, forcing down the part of you that reeks of guilt, ceasing the tidal wave of pity urging to wash ashore.

The newfound spite irks, refusing him to control your social interactions and you pick yourself up, marching with determination over to the Gryffindor table. “Hey Dean. Are you going to the gig? Because I was wondering if you wanted to, uh—gowithme?” The adrenaline spits out in a hurried ramble, standing behind the sprightly boy.

Ron snorts, snickering lightly. “What a skitzball,” he mutters to Seamus.

Dean, who had only just turned at your arrival, catches the half rushed question and grins. “Are you asking me to the gig? Like on a date?”

You nod. His smile brightens. “Sure sounds fun!”

You blink, surprised. “Really?” His answer is so straightforward. There’s no teasing or joking, a stark difference from how Mattheo interacts with you.

He laughs nodding, “Yeah really, can’t wait!”

You grin, biting your lip excitedly, “Okay cool, see you then!” Leaving the hall with a light spring in your step, your mood instantly lifted at having a date for the first time.

The following weekend, students of age make their way down to the village crowding around the entrance to Hogs Head, the hosts of this evening. The interior, normally consisting of minimal effort, had surprisingly transformed, outdoing itself for the performance with dark black cloth hanging to encapsulate the atmosphere of a muggle venue. The ceiling is enchanted with glistening disco lights twinkling and streams of smoke that surround the main platform the band will perform on.

Dean grins, offering his arm chivalry out to you, liking the idea of you entering the venue as one. He's chuffed, and a little surprised that you had been the one to initiate, asking him to be your date.

Dean’s fondness for you had continued to bloom, his trips to the library becoming more frequent, happily using every opportunity to get more acquainted. It seemed to be the only time you weren't attached at the hip to Mattheo, and Dean, though not entirely scared of Riddle, didn't want to end up on his shit side.

“Woah, the pub looks wicked, doesn’t it?” He speaks down to you, his voice attempting to be on the softer side still booms with elation.

Laughing sweetly, you nod in agreement, admiring the pub as it fills, people already gathering towards the stage. Dean moves inwards, his arm gently pressing to your back to stop the two of you getting separated.

“Yeah, I’m excited!” Responding with positive optimism for a good night, though you can't help searching around for someone in particular.

Already aware of his date, there's no room for unwanted assumptions to creep in. It's all laid on the table. He’s easily noticeable, entering among his other Slytherin friends and their obnoxious energy suffocating anyone in a one step radiance. He walks with Everly confidently hanging off his arm, looking like a sparkly prized charm that, you know, means his eyes won't be anywhere but on her.

The desperation slithers up your throat, constricting your breath. Thankfully, Dean’s not paying attention caught in his own zone. For when Mattheo scans the floor and his eyes lock on yours, there's no force strong enough to lure your attention from him.

He's as attractive as ever, dressed in all black. His curls look decent for once, coiled neatly, which might have made you swoon, but you can't help question if she did it for him. The bitterness drenches your tongue with the disturbing truth that he’ll always pick someone else over you.

Your heart sinks further, drowning in the waves of pain and ultimately it’s the part of you with any dignity left that turns your focus back to Dean. Mattheo watches how Dean waves over his other mates, his smile widening for a moment at Ginny, and he frowns as you are forced to blend in with his rivals. He rubs his temple, a throbbing headache banging as he fights the battle, evading the pressure rising of hurt and jealousy threatening to breach the surface.

“Fuck off, since when did y/n mingle with the Gryffindorks.” Draco’s disdainful comment snaps Mattheo’s head back as the others identify the reasoning for your absence.

“What did you do?” Theo asks Mattheo bluntly, the crowd roaring, welcoming the band strolling onto the stage.

Mattheo scowls with bitter irritation, snapping louder over the noise. “I didn't do shit. She did that all on her own.”

Theo observes perplexing Mattheo’s response, noting the nonstop chatter you’re spewing to Dean as the two of you move closer to the stage. He leans down to point out whispering, “I doubt it. She hasn’t even waved at you once.”

“Well, maybe she’s too busy fawning over dickhead Dean to give a shit about the rest of us.” Mattheo grits, defensively grouping everyone in to share the fault of his wrongdoings on why you hadn’t said hi.

“I need a fucking drink.” He mutters, his high hopes of smashing dissolving no longer interested in using Everly as a distraction. What he really needed was you, a nice tall glass to satisfy his thirsting desire. His eyes linger on you for another moment. You look nice. Who’s he kidding?

You look gorgeous. It’s such a simple outfit and yet it suits your figure so well. He doesn’t know the last time he saw you so dressed up, definitely never for himself like that.

His eyes flicker back to his date and he can’t help but compare the two of you. There's an energy about you tonight he rarely sees. You’re holding yourself with tallness, an appearance that makes you even more attractive. You look happy and confident and his eyes can’t help but scan your exposed legs. That skirt is definitely shorter than your uniform.

He always knew his feelings would resurface, couldn’t stay down forever despite how hard he fought them. However, the intense jealousy and pain was something he thought he could escape. Having kept it at bay for so long, why was it now that his mind weakened, allowing the sweet essence of you to slip through?

He wanted to run to your side and embrace you, to shove Dean to the ground with one swing of his fist, for even daring to look. He wanted to stand beside you now as the group moved to the stage and scream the lyrics with you in each other's faces. He wanted to have your smile directed at him and be the one to spin you, listening to your infectious laugh meant for only him.

But of course he’d been afraid and pushed you again and even as he ponders and dreams of the possibilities of what ifs, he can’t deny how happy you look beside Dean. Smiling brightly up at the git, he knows he’s being selfish and greedy. He wants to fight for you, to make things right, to tell you how much you mean to him.

He leaves you be for the first few songs, eyes fixated on you only, before he spots Dean excuse himself to the bathroom, and in a flash he’s doing the same ditching his date. He walks casually so as to not draw suspicion, keeping a distance between Dean and himself.

The bathrooms down the corridor in the pub are dark and dingy and mostly empty as everyone’s still listening to the band. He spots Dean stalking past him down a few urine stands before he takes a wiz himself. It’s more awkward than the usual boys' bathroom encounter.

Dean can feel the prickling burn of deathly eyes on him, and peeks sideways at Mattheo. They finish washing their hands and then Mattheo speaks up before Dean can escape his interrogation. “Thomas. Doing well?”

Dean looks over at Mattheo in surprise. He dries his hands and clears his throat. “Yeah fine. Yourself?”

Mattheo runs a hand through his hair, eyeing him with a sharp look, trying to pinpoint what about him you might like over himself. Sure, he was tall and strong like Mattheo. But he’s a loudmouth Gryffindor. There's nothing worth tolerating about them. “Fine.”

Dean watches, sensing Mattheo is pissed about something, and he can only imagine it’s his presence around you. “You seem like you're digging for something. Why don’t you just say it?”

He chuckles darkly, a little impressed with his boldness - guess Gryffindors' are brave after all. For the anger Mattheo felt was reaching a peak like a volcano about to explode and Dean was standing in the danger zone.

“Not sure why you’re hanging around her when you’re clearly still hung up on your ex.” Dean frowns, looking at Mattheo in confusion. “I can see the way you look at Weasley still, so I suggest you back the fuck off y/n, before I make you.”

Dean looks at Mattheo like he’s mental. “I actually like her, you know. I’m not into Ginny anymore.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, shithead.” Mattheo moves forwards looming, he’s a tad shorter than Dean, but it doesn’t diminish the look he’s shooting his way.

He’s still standing tall and brooding enough to have Dean a little uncomfortable in his shoes. But Dean isn’t one to back down from a little intimidation, and eyes him, “I see what this is about. You're jealous, aren’t you?”

Mattheo scowls, hating that he’s hit it right on the nail, but only laughs instead. “Good one, Thomas.”

“You are, though, and you missed your chance to tell her, didn't you?” Dean uncharacteristically taunts him, unaware of the insecurity he’s about to strike. “Not like you deserve her anyway with how you act-.”

In the split second the word leaves Dean's lips, Mattheo connects his fist with his nose. There’s a loud crack of the bone and Dean yelps, grasping it as blood streams covering his fingers.

“The fuck are you, to talk to me like that?” He watches Dean’s bravado crumble as he stares into the intense and wired eyes of Mattheo. “You don’t know shit about me or her. Get the fuck out of here before I do something I actually regret.”

Dean, still clutching his nose, gives him a look that easily reads what he thinks about him before he decides it’s best just to leave, heading back out into the hallway. Mattheo stays pacing a little longer and gazes at himself in the mirror. He’s craving a cigarette now; he should just ditch this shitty gig and call it a night.

The few people hovering outside the hall’s entrance, dousle themselves with refreshing glasses of water. You’re one of them having gotten hot and thought it would be good to wait somewhere visible to him. All too easily Dean is noticeable pushing out the door with his hand still pressed to his nose.

“Holy shit! What happened to you?” Rushing over you ask Dean, though you have a tickling suspicion already.

For once, Dean’s usual aura is low, and he gives you an indifferent look. “Who do you think, y/n. Riddle of course.”

Hot flashes of anger blur your vision, washing over you with a feverish intensity at Mattheo's audacity and you stare at the bathroom door as if trying to summon him out. Dean gives you another look, muttering an irritated, “I’m gonna go wash up elsewhere. I think you should talk to him.”

Dean walks off back down the hall to another bathroom, and your shoulders drop in defeat at the disappearance of your date. How had your night flipped one eighty? Your sunny optimism now drenched by the pelted rain of trouble that Mattheo Riddle brings, and then he appears.

He’s shaking out his fist, flexing his fingers, a clear sign he’s just used them in combat, and your eyes narrow on him. He meets your gaze, his eyes lighting up at seeing you noticing him properly, but then you’re walking towards him hastily. He has little time to escape before the familiar pulling pain shoots from his ear down and he yelps, cursing.

He could never defeat the strength of an angry woman's ear pull, as you drag him down and outside the pub, pleading at you. “Ace! Geez, come on, is this really ow- necessary!? Fuck-“

It had been forever since you’d pulled the move, one that was extremely effective and often required when the two of you were younger. His ear swells a deep red and continues to throb even once released from your hold.

He winces, straightening up to shoot you an unappreciative glare, but he’s met with an equally disappointed face. A look he never wishes to see again, eyes vacant their usual glimmer, left with only a look of disappointment that fears him worse than his father.

He swallows, but acts nonchalantly. "What’s this all about?”

Gritting your teeth, eyes narrowed into slits as thin as paper. “You hit him? You hit Dean! What is wrong with you, Mattheo?”

His sympathy and sorrow vanish in the return of his anger, muttering. “He had it coming.”

“How? What did he say?”

He rolls his eyes, rubbing his aching ear. “It doesn’t matter. It was uncalled for, and I shut him up.”

“You always do this, always an excuse that makes you look like the victim. What could he have possibly said that would make you need to act like that?”

“He doesn’t even like you, y/n, he’s still hung up on his ex - I don’t know why you’re wasting time with him anyway, you’re not that oblivious, are you?” He snaps, his frustrations growing.

His words sting, like a slap to the face, and you blink, standing back from him. Oblivious? Who was he to call blind when he couldn’t even comprehend how you felt about him? There's no recollection of seeing Dean pining after Ginny, and the tears build at the lengths he will go to destroy your first possibility of romance.

“Are you seriously making this up now because you're upset? That I had the courage to ask someone to be my date, and he happens to be a Gryffindor?”

He groans, frustrated, “No fuck, I’m not making this up.” He walks closer to you, trying to get you to understand, but he can see he’s hurt you. “Ace, come on, I’m not trying to ruin-”

“Well, you are!” It’s his turn to be slapped, and he stares a little taken back, absorbing your words. There's a chill in the air, like your words squeezed all the joy out and it shows in his eyes.

They harden, staring you down, and he gives you a tight-lipped smile. “Fine. I can see I’m not wanted.” He’s bitter and heartbroken as you completely disregard him with no trust. But he holds his tongue further, not wishing to damage the ship. “I’ll stay out of your way to avoid ruining your life further.”

He doesn’t even mean to say that much, for the idea of staying away breaks him. The concept that his worst fears are coming to life, cracking, pushing their way to the surface, and it frightens him. As he storms off, glad to escape the awful changing reality, he can't stop thinking about how this is all his fault.

Fuck. Fuck! He walks hastily away, not daring to turn back around and see the despair he’s left you in, heading straight back to the castle with a tornado of mixed emotions. Anger and sadness that push and shove at one another, fighting for dominance in who will break the surface first.

He collapses on his bed, stuffing his pillow over his face and erupts into a raw yell, fighting back the tears. In the end anger wins, and he kills his self-pity, deciding to down himself in a bottle of fire whiskey till he blacks out with the last remaining thought on his mind. You had been the one to ask Dean.

Any and all interacts are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading! 💫 Masterlist! Part two should be up next few days- to a week.

ALSO the biggest shoutout to @amongemeraldclouds who patiently dealt with my ass about this for like a month ilyyy pookie 🤍 @leona-hawthorne who for without I’d never have restarted this I swear ilyyyy and @slytherinslut0 thank you for proof reading!! 🩵

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