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cherrixpie · 1 month ago

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NEMESIS

part three of five

↬ you were supposed to steer clear of mattheo riddle. Shame that he was just so irrestible.

↬ sfw; wc: 7.0k; cw: blood, mentions of violence, mattheo needs therapy asap; tags: gryffindor!reader, muggleborn!reader, enemies to lovers, my favorite part so far ngl

( masterlist )

previously on nemesis…

Mattheo Riddle stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling in uneven, ragged breaths, knuckles still stained with the dark red of drying blood. His brown hair was a chaotic mess, wild curls fell into his stormy eyes, which burned with some unspoken rage- or perhaps mere adrenaline. The candlelight of the room flickered across him, illuminating the sharp contrast of the crimson streaks marring his jawline and collar. His shirt was rumpled and torn at the hem, blood smudged along the fabric as though he'd wiped his hands there in a haste. He looked slightly feral, yet oddly composed, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips when his eyes landed on you.

“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice low and edged with amusement as he stepped into the room, boots heavy on the flagstone floor. His gaze roamed over your sitting figure, taking in your startled expression, the nightdress you'd thrown on prematurely and now regretted even owning as it made you feel utterly exposed and vulnerable under his heated stare.

“Didn't think I'd have company tonight.” He swiped a hand through his hair, smearing the blood further, the act almost calculated in its casualness. His lips quirked into a crooked grin, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What’s wrong, princess? Can't see blood?” There was a teasing lilt to his words, but his eyes lingered on you a moment too long, as though he were trying to decide what to make of you- or what you might make of him. Your alarm rang, but neither of you averted your eyes from one another. Finally, you raised your voice, but it was but a timid mumbling. The strange sense of security of the forest had left you.

“Would you like a muffin?”

He didn't react at first, instead letting his eyes rake over your figure. Without a word, he slumped down on the bench opposite you with the table ensuring a distance between you. He leaned back casually and placed a finger on his lips as if lost in thought, but his eyes were as awake as those of a hawk, registering every little squirm, every raise and fall of your chest.

To escape his stare, you rose from your seat in a haste and walked over to the oven. The muffins had turned out well and you left them on the table to cool off. Then, you worked up the courage to turn around and meet his dark eyes. They hadn't retracted from your figure and you couldn't suppress a shiver. In a way, he reminded you of a predator, siting to attack, cowering for the jump, ready to go off at any second now.

“How did you find someone to beat up at three in the morning?” you asked, thankful that your voice didn't shake. He blinked, for the first time, as if he was pulled out of a haze. It was a paradox, how you found yourself reassured when he quirked a smirk, however dangerous and sinister it may be, because he looked like himself again. When did that begin to be a calming thing? Something had to be seriously wrong with you.

Mattheo waited with an answer, fishing another pack of cigarettes from his trousers' pockets and igniting one. The smell lingered uncomfortably in the air, but you pretended you could neither smell nor see it, knowing by his heavy stare, he was burning to elicit a reaction from you. “Terry Boot. That ravenclaw prefect.” You knew Terry, you sat with him in Arithmancy. Though he was a bit of a know-it-all and a little arrogant, you got along just fine. Terry wasn't one to pick fights, but you wouldn't have suspected him of being the culprit anyway.

With a deliberate movement, you sat back down across from him. You hid your shaking hands under the table and managed to return his gaze steadily. “Why did you beat him up?” His lip curled as Riddle shifted slightly in his seat. You struggled to remain still when he straightened up, rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward subtly. His magnetic eyes fixed you in place, you wouldn't have been able to move even if you wanted to. Riddle crooked his head slightly when you didn't retreat and his smile widened.

Finally, he averted his eyes to take a drag out of his cigarette before turning back to you, a prosaic expression on his face. “You want to know the reason I beat him up, princess?”

Mattheo felt drunk. The adrenaline of the fight still cursed through him, the thrill of inciting violence, make someone pay for his fucking life had him ride high. And now, here you were, in your little white nightdress, the embodiment of everything he couldn't have. Something good and pure. And Mattheo couldn't think straight, or rather, as all inebriation did, his filter had been discarded in favor how uncontrolled raging of thoughts. At the same time, he felt detached from himself and trapped in a too-intense dream. Mattheo was both wrecked and lifted. Too bad you had to stumble upon him when he was riding high with anxiety and elation.

“Yes,” you said, bringing him back to the present. A present in which you sat across from him, slightly shivering but looking him steadily in the eye nonetheless. Mattheo could have used legilimency on you to dig into your thoughts and see himself through your eyes, but he didn't. It felt more exciting to watch you, to try and pry you open until you exposed a part of yourself. “He was just there,” Mattheo answered honestly and observed your reaction. There barely was any. You showed neither repulsion nor intrigue, only a light frown adorned your face.

“That's all there is to it,” you said, but it was not a question, more of an assessment. An ironic chuckle left his lips. “That's the kind of guy I am, princess.”

Mattheo felt wild with something indiscernible when you leaned forward as well. Then, you did something so utterly strange and unpredictable it stole his breath away. Your hands came up to lay themselves upon the smooth surface of the table, you stabilized them against the wood, but still, they shook. Visibly. What in earth were you attempting to do here by showing him your weakness, putting your fear on full display? It was something Mattheo wouldn't have done even in his wildest dreams and his gaze lingered on your trembling hands. With an aimless motion, you turned them so the back of your hands lay upon the woods and your palms were exposed, as if you were awaiting a gift, or praying.

“Does that bother you?”

Through your strange action and direct tone, you had momentarily distracted him. Not a hard task, seeing as emotions and trains of thought flickered through him in uncontrolled speed. Almost feverish. Looking back at you, he contemplating your question. Only so long it wasn't to hasty, not long enough to be considered actual doubt. “No,” he lied and took another drag of his cigarette.

As Riddle blew out the smoke at you, you tried not to blink it away. Instead, you raised a skeptical eyebrow. Your eyes still locked on him, as if he'd pound on you if you broke contact, you pulled the tray of cooling muffins closer and took one out from among them. Over the table, you pushed it towards him as if you were offering him a peace treaty- or throwing him a rope in deep waters. “Take a muffin.”

He scoffed, flicking the burnt-out cigarette away. It glinted in the dark for a few seconds before molding into the background. “I don't want to eat muffins and talk about my feelings. I have no ambitions to be little miss perfect’s newest little social project.” The words were meant to rile you up, but you showed no reaction. “You can't do a lot of talking if you're eating,” you said bravely, “Can you?”

To your utter surprise, Riddle reached across the table and took the muffin. You watched as he discarded the cup and bit into the soft dough, somewhat anxious about whether he'd like it. But you didn't let any of that anxiety show on your face, putting on a mask of indifference. Now unoccupied once more, your hands started shaking again and you suppressed the urge to conceal them under the table. For a few seconds, you sat in silence as he ate. It was a strange sight to behold and you'd have liked to take a picture of it: Mattheo Riddle, covered in blood, eating one of your muffins.

Only when he's finished, Riddle spoke up again. “They're good.” Not expecting the compliment, your eyes widened and a traitorous little blush creeped onto your cheeks. To your fortune, the few floating candles weren't enough to illuminate your face properly. “Thank you,” you said, hoping that it didn't sound too timid.

Mattheo felt daring in his adrenaline induced state. As he watched you avert your eyes and your lips twitch, his irritation at your strangely endearing behavior surged within him. For a second, he wished nothing more than to fuck the good girl attitude out of you. Approach you here in the kitchen, get you talking, get you all soft and pliant for him to ruin your and your perfect little nightdress. Alas, he discarded the thought. So, Mattheo thought bitterly to himself, he at least seemed to possess a certain level of self-control. Even though you were testing it.

“Why are you here?” you asked him once you'd found your voice again and looked back at him. It was as if the tension in the air had subsided slightly, or rather, been resolved by another kind of suspense. He was no longer so dangerous. Instead of calculating fear, you felt yourself overcome with curiosity. Riddle raised his brows at you and you clarified. “In the kitchens at three in the morning, I mean. I reckon that's not a habit of yours.”

If only you knew how the kitchens were his place of retreat when nightmares chased after him even in his waking hours, when sleep would loom over him like a threat.

Riddle didn't answer, and it didn't surprise you. What you said next, however, did. Maybe it was the bruises and cuts on him, seeping with blood that collected in sat puddles on the table and stained his white, torn shirt. Maybe you did because you were tired, maybe the words had slipped past your lips out of exhaustion and a lack of concentration. Or maybe, it was the dim light, or, that you just wanted to tell somebody. Somebody who wouldn't fuss over you, someone who wouldn't worry. “I bake to relieve stress,” you shared hesitantly and your tone seemed to catch his attention. He was frowning, but you continued, watching your hands intently. They had stopped shaking.

“I don't usually come down here at night, today was an exception. I was just so stressed out over the extra coursework for McGonnagall. It's like I feel the need to make it up to her. You know, because I disappointed her. It's important to me that she likes me, or else I can't stand to sit before her and be the passive receiver of anything she may inflict upon me.”

A long silence followed this confession. No sound from outside managed to penetrate this level of the castle, so the only sound was yours and his breathing, that seemed to get louder with every second he showed no reaction. In order to do something, anything, you reached for a muffin to nibble on it. It was a good patch, your assessment had been correct. Almost shyly, you looked back at him, then quickly back to your muffin. Regret washed over you. What in God’s name had you been thinking? This would come to bite you in the ass later, you were sure of it. Until-

“Sometimes,” Riddle said slowly, weighing every word. “I need a solitary space to confide the monster that I am.” His raised chin indicated that he was waiting for you to recoil or advert your eyes, but you did neither.

“You think you're a monster?” you asked quietly, curiously. It was almost too natural, the way you leaned towards him over the table, your muffin long forgotten. It was as if the world had shrunken down to an empty kitchen and two people sitting across one another at a polished table. His dark eyes seemed to hide a whole world and intrigue pulled you towards it like moths to the light, like Icarus to the sun. Or maybe, you were just getting sappy.

Riddle chuckled dryly. “You don't?” The question sounded trivial, utterly meaningless, but you wouldn't be deterred by his indifference.

“What does it matter what I think?” Somehow, you found yourself whispering, as if the silence itself had ears.

His answer caught you off guard, simply because you'd never have expected these words to fall from Mattheo Riddle’s lips. “I don't know.” For a second, he almost seemed vulnerable, bathed in the warm, soft glow of the candles. Without you realizing it, they had hovered closer, and now, you could fully admire the bleeding cuts and bruises all over his face. You knew he didn't get them because he wasn't the superior fighter, he always was, you'd seen him fight countless times. It was because he didn't shield himself, he didn't bother with protecting himself, he only strived to inflict as much damage as possible. You couldn't imagine that Terry would have been able to lay a finger on him if Riddle hadn't aimed for it. In a way, whether he did or didn't know, he was punishing both his opponent and himself.

“Is that why you fight people?” you asked quietly. “Because you're a monster?” Riddle only shrugged, but you thought he'd grasped what you really wanted to ask by the way he looked upon your white-clad figure.

“Why are you talking to me?” he asked, but it was more curiosity than apprehension. You, little miss perfect, not fleeing from him as usual. No, you seemed to be rooted to your spot, and your eyes on him made it impossible for him to leave, to move. What if you were caught? What if, tomorrow, the whole school would know you'd spend the night with him in the kitchens. Oh, how ashamed you would be, how abashed, how humiliated. You'd turn from him in class, where your friends were watching, but in the forest, and now, here, you exposed yourself for him in a way that felt more intimate than if you'd taken off that little nightdress of yours. Your eyes were open, like welcoming gates, and it was unexpectedly disarming to look into them.

Mattheo had asked why you were talking to him, but in reality, he had wanted to ask a different question. Why were you kind? You seemed to handle your kindness as you did your muffins, handing it out without a thought to anyone. Why had you shown him your hands? Why had you told him about your stress? How could you be so unlike what he'd come to expect of people? Though it wasn't as if you didn't think about how you handed out your kindness, and it only made you more intriguing. You were smart, reflected, realistic and honest. And, you were dealing with weapons Mattheo had never learned how to fend off.

“Why not?” you asked after rolling his question around in your head. You kept a close eye on him as his brows shot up and sighed. “Why am I talking to you? Well, I suppose because I am in a room with you.”

Your bluntness took him off guard. It was a perfectly simple answer that would have sufficed with anyone. But he wasn't just anyone. Or was he? When had the rules applied to others ever applied to him in the same way? He looked into your eyes and saw no lie. You might have been afraid, or cautious, but he knew that, in this moment, you saw him as human. Just as human as any student who might have stumbled upon you and your muffins.

For the first time this night, you glanced at the large grandfather clock in one corner of them room. As if you'd overcome the fear that he'd jump you unexpectedly if you didn't keep your eyes on him. A small, almost apologetic smile tugged at your lips as you rise from your seat. “I better get going, it's a long way up to Gryffindor tower.”

Right. Mattheo had almost forgotten the rest of the world, and he hadn't missed it. But for the first time, he felt like solitude in this kitchen would feel empty and meaningless, without you. So he rose from the bench as well and watched as you wrapped the muffins in a large handkerchief and placed them on one of the tables. Suddenly, you halted your movement and glanced up at him, as if you'd remembered something important. You pulled another handkerchief from one of the drawers, picked out a handful of muffins and wrapped them into a smaller bundle. Mattheo didn't realize you intended it for him until you extended your hand towards him.

“You can just tell your friends you stole them from me,” you said easily and gave him a hesitant smile. “I'll make sure to glare extra hard at you tomorrow.”

Without a word, he took the bundle. It was weird. Now, it felt like the two of you shared a secret. The unspoken agreement to tell nobody of this meeting hovered in the air between you, and you gave him a small nod he felt tempted to return. But then, you turned away, and the words stumbled from his lips like outstretched claws trying to keep you inside this already special memory for another few seconds. Mattheo hated how desperate he felt for this one moment, but he couldn't deny it. “Bold of you to think I'd share these with my friends.”

You laughed, and it stirred something inside him. The sound sobered him up, to the reality that you were supposed to hate him, and he was supposed to hate you for it, for being as unforgiving as the rest of the world. But you didn't seem to hate him. When you laughed, Mattheo found himself questioning whether you could hate at all. You seemed like someone who'd been loved all her life.

“Are you not taking these with you?” he asked finally, indicating the larger bundle of muffins on one of the tables. Shaking your head, you opened the portrait to leave, but kept your eyes on him. “They're for the house elves.” Then, you were gone.

Over the next week, Mattheo found himself looking for you in crowds, on the Gryffindor table at mealtimes and started noticing things about you in class. The way you'd absorb all that the teachers said, the way the ink would spill over your fingers as you scribbled down notes, the way you laughed with your friends, but never too loud. How you'd sometimes be so deep in thought you didn't even register the end of class. Mattheo noticed the way you seemed exhausted and burned out at dinner but still found it in you to laugh with your friends.

At the same time, excitement in the castle was rising approaching the weekend when the first quidditch game of the season, Gryffindor vs Slytherin, would take place. The usual brawls and hexing between students of the two houses caused smaller uproars every other day, but, for the first time in his time at Hogwarts, Mattheo found himself preoccupied. You drew him in like a magnet, making him suddenly show up to classes on time to watch you, get the chance to finally understand what it was that had him so distracted with you. He hated the way he couldn't seem to get away from you, but he couldn't resist it.

You, too, found yourself strangely preoccupied with looking for Mattheo Riddle in crowds or in class. You hadn't mentioned the late night encounter to your friends, and part of you was starting to believe it might have been a product of your imagination, your exhausted, sleep-deprived mind playing tricks on you, a confusion of dream and reality. But just when you had almost convinced yourself, you were proven wrong on the Thursday before the big match, sitting in the library and hovering over a book as you absentmindedly chewed on your quill. Just when you thought your eyelids would simply drop, his voice pulled you out of your haze.

“Careful there, princess, you'll run out of quills before you can finish all these notes.”

Startled, your head shot up, and there he was. Riddle leaned casually against the table you occupied, hands in the pockets of his trousers and a subtle smirk on his lips as he looked down on you. For once, his shirt was unstained, which took you off guard more than anything. Until you realized the situation you were in. Quickly, you pulled the quill away and sat up a little straighter. “I wasn't-” you hesitated. “Wait, what are you even doing here?”

Riddle raised his brows until they almost disappeared behind his dark curly hair that fell into his face. “The library’s public. Though I didn't expect to be this entertained while I was here." He was grinning again and pulled out the chair opposite you for himself. You watched him sit down before you and lean back in his chair, gaze fixed upon you. “Well, princess,” he indicated the books with a nod, “Planning your next adventure breaking curfew, or is this one strictly academic?”

Now, it was your turn to raise your brows, though you couldn't suppress the smallest smile. It had been real, you now knew it had been real all along. “Unlike you, I actually like to study.”

Riddle leaned forwards a bit, propping his elbows up on his legs and resting his chin on his fist. Though the movement was casual, his gaze was anything but. It was still magnetizing, but it no longer held the explosive, uncontrollable heat as it had the night you'd offered him a muffin in the kitchens. “Who says I don't like to study?” He asked and his pleasant smile almost fooled you into buying into his nonchalance. “I'm learning a lot at the moment.”

Over your book, you threw him a quick glance. “About what?”

“You,” he said simply, still with that casual smirk on his face. For a few seconds, you were simply irritated. Then, it dawned on you that Mattheo Riddle had just flirted with you. Blinking perplexedly, you stuttered out an incoherent response and cursed yourself for being so quick to fall into his traps. Clearly, he was using his charm to get one over on you, establish himself as the one in control. But you would no longer be his little plaything- not after you'd seen a small glimpse of the real him that night in the kitchens. No, you were determined not to let him push you around.

But before you could shoot back, someone tapped your shoulder shakily and you turned in your seat, momentarily distracted from Mattheo. It was Neville, who cast nervous glances at Riddle before quickly looking away, afraid he might meet his eye. When you cleared your throat and smiled at him, his eyes snapped back to you and he seemed to find his voice. “Hey, uhm… thanks again for your work on that potions assignment, I just received an E and I could’ve never done it without you.” He seemed a bit breathless and stepped from one foot to the other nervously.

“An E?” you repeated, momentarily forgetting all about Riddle. “Wow, Neville, that's amazing!” He thanked you brightly before scurrying off with one last, terrified look at Riddle. When you turned back to him, you smiled a little abashedly. To your surprise, he returned your small smile, eyes glinting. “You're really wasting your talents in Gryffindor, you know that?”

You wanted to glare at him, but you couldn't suppress a light grin at his words. “And what would I do, say, in Slytherin, Riddle? Hex people just for fun?”

“Mattheo.”

Taken aback, you blinked at him and his lip curled into a grin. “Call me Mattheo.” You hesitated for a second. The silly thought that you might not be able to say his name popped into your head, the irrational fear that you'd pronounce it wrong. So you only nodded and began packing your books to get them back to their shelves. It was already dark outside and the library was deserted as the time on the clock was approaching curfew.

When you rose from your seat, Riddle did, too, watching as you heaved the stack of books into your arms. For a few seconds, he watched you struggle to stabilize the weight, then, the weight was suddenly lifted from your arms as he got hold of the books. Your perplexion was met with a wink. “So, where are these going, princess?”

You motioned for him to follow you and, in silence, you moved through the rows of shelves, the stack of books growing smaller by the minute. When only one of them was left, you finally broke the silence. You turned to him, and your breath hitched at his proximity. Behind you the bookshelves, you refused the retreat or avert your eyes. Instead, you held out your hand while steadily looking into his eyes. “That one’s mine, I'll be taking that.”

But he didn't give it to you. You were faintly reminded of your days in primary school when the boys would hold your books over your head to tease you. Mattheo didn't hold it over your head, but reaching out and taking it from him seemed just as impossible as jumping iowards to grab your books back when you were younger had been. Instead of following your request, he made the smallest step forward. Placing the book on a nearby table, his arms came up to cage you against the bookshelves as his eyes glimmered in the dark like the embers of his cigarettes. The clock struck, it was officially past curfew now.

“What the hell is it about you?” Mattheo murmured through clenched teeth, his eyes raking over your features. He seemed to be talking to himself more than you. Only now did you realize how much taller than you he was. His figure loomed over you, but as he placed his elbows on the shelf, he dipped his head down, until it was only inches away from you. Still, you made no attempt to step back. Lifting your chin, you met his gaze and a nervous coil tightened in your stomach.

“What's it about?” he whispered, not taking his eyes off of you. “Your book.” His voice may have been hushed, but it rumbled softly in a way that made heat rush into your cheeks.

“It's an old mythological story,” you breathed, as if you were telling him a secret. “About a ten year long war. One of the parties kidnapped the most beautiful woman alive, Helen, from the other, and they fought a decade over her. The book tells the last days of said war.”

“A decade,” he murmured, and as he spoke, you could feel the exhale of his breath fanning over your face. Was he trying to intimidate you? If yes, he was doing a bad job. You were more excited than anything. Whispering with the enemy between bookshelves after curfew- the list of forbidden things you were doing sent an unknown thrill through your insides. “What the hell was the deal about fucking Helen?”

“Don't know,” you answered, feeling the books against the back of your head when you angled it up to get a better look at him in the dark. “But in some myths, she's described to be the daughter of nemesis, the Greek goddess of retribution for the sin of hubris. Funny, huh?”

You didn't even know what you were saying anymore, and Mattheo smiled lightly as if he knew exactly what was going on inside your head. Which you didn't doubt for a second, given his rumored legilimency skills. “Hm,” he hummed, looking down on you with an indiscernible glint in his dark brown eyes. “This here is quite hubristic, isn't it? Someone like me talking to someone like you.”

You frowned, head quite dizzy from his proximity. “What’s that supposed to mean?” His heavy gaze on you made you feel as if you were standing under a stage light instead of a dark library. For a quick, crazy moment, you thought he was going to kiss you, but he only dipped down further to bring his hand to your neck. It felt rough and calloused, undoubtedly from being smashed into someone’s jaw every other week. Mattheo watched it against your bare neck with an odd expression, not unlike awe. When your brearth hitched in your throat, his eyes snapped back up at you.

“IT IS PAST CURFEW!”

The both of you broke apart so hastily you stumbled against the opposite bookshelve. The cutting voice of Madame Prince had rung through the library, and now, you spotted her figure a few shelves away, approaching you quickly with a lantern in her hand. Frozen in place, terror washed over you, when suddenly, you're were yanked backwards. You had to stumble along as Mattheo started to run, dashing past bookshelves and pulling you with him. To your utter incomprehension, he was laughing madly as he ushered you out of the library and down the next corridor.

“We can't run from a teacher, Mattheo!” you cried in a panicked voice as you rounded a corner and dashed up a staircase. But Riddle only looked over his shoulder with a teasing grin and winked at you. “I love the way you say my name, princess!”

Past the windows and classroom doors, up the stairs and along corridors you flew, your hand tightly clasped in his. Only his relentless pull still kept you going as you gasped for breath, but Mattheo seemed completely unbothered, still giggling like a maniac. It suddenly dawned on you that this might be the happiest you had ever seen Mattheo Riddle, and the thought elicited a small giggle even from you. The situation was just so absurd. Never once would you have pictured being dragged through the Hogwarts corridors by Mattheo Riddle on the run from a teacher, all the while giggling like school children. This had to be one of those crazy dreams you forgot five seconds after waking up. But you didn't want to forget, and, in all honesty, you didn't want to wake up either.

Finally, when your legs felt like they were about to collapse and your lungs screamed for air, Mattheo slowed down and you slumped against a wall, sliding down against it until you were sitting on the ground and heaving for breath. He seemed almost giddy with adrenaline as he rocked on the balls of his feet in front of you, letting out a breathless chuckle. “Now, this is what I call a Thursday night!”

“If you say so,” you replied breathlessly and held your side. Only now did you spare a second glance at your surroundings and your eyes widened. “We’re at Gryffindor tower?” This was the corridor before the one with the portrait of the fat lady that marked the entrance to your common room, you recognized it even in the dark.

“Didn't quite trust you to find your way back in your state, princess,” he grinned teasingly, but he didn't sound malicious at all. His teasing had lost its sharp edge somewhat.

When you finally managed to establish a stable breathing pattern, you got to your feet and dusted off your robes to have something to do with your hands. “Good night,” you said softly and he flashed you a grin.

“Sweet dreams, princess.”

The Friday was buzzing with electricity as it was the day before Saturday's quidditch game. But you only had half a mind for the general excitement, occasional brawls and Harry and Ron’s quidditch talk, because you were still dwelling in the memories of last night. Even hours later, you could still feel his hand on your neck like that of a ghost, could recall the sound of his hushed baritone and the look in his eyes. Maybe he transformed into another creature at night, one of allure and intrigue. But, who were you kidding. It had been him, and now, in the daylight, you struggled to reconcile your friends' and your previous perception of him with the man you'd come to know after curfew.

“Hello? Earth to y/n!” Ron waved his hand in front of your eyes and you snapped out of your daze. It was the last lesson before lunch, potions with Professor Slughorn, and the chatter and clatter of students enabled you to talk in class when you usually couldn't. But it also meant you didn't have an excuse for staring into space. “Being distracted in class is my job,” Ron grinned, “You can't just steal my job, or Slughorn will notice how bad I am at potions!”

With a little laugh, you looked after the potion and stirred it around. It had the desirable color already, but you pretended to be busying yourself with the fire to throw a quick glance around the classroom. Mattheo sat in one of the corners next to Nott, they seemed to be engaged in conversation. Their potion had the described color as well. You watched them from behind the cauldron. Nott was frowning deeply and seemed to be attacking his friend with a string of questions. Mattheo looked annoyed, but then, he caught your eye and his lips twitched. Quickly, you got to your feet again and avoided to look in his direction, therefore missing Nott’s suspicious look.

“Hey, I think we're finished,” Ron spoke up, flipping through the pages of your potions book. “It's got the right color and everything!”

“Yeah, I think you're right,” you smiled absentmindedly and Ron frowned. With a thud, he closed the book and leaned over the table towards you. “Are you… okay?” Taken aback, you focused your attention on him and missed the way Mattheo’s eyes narrowed as your ginger friend. “What do you mean?”

“You've been… I don't know, a little distracted lately,” said Ron uncomfortably. “Ever since that dada lesson, you know?”

“Right,” you mumbled under your breath and gave him what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “I'm fine, really, I just need to get more sleep.” That was not a lie. Your nights worth of curfew breaking only added to the exhaustion you felt from the nights you spent studying in the common room when everyone else had already left.

Ron glanced towards the corner of the room you had found your attention drawn to as well and leaned in even closer, lowering his voice to a murmur. “He's not threatening you or anythin’, is he?” he asked, “Riddle, I mean.”

His question surprised you so much you were stunned to silence, and when you opened your mouth to reply, a large shadow fell upon the two of you. “Ah, quite lovely,” smiled Slughorn fatherly as he inspected your potion. “Very well indeed, but I wouldn't expect anything else from you, Miss y/n.” He didn't acknowledge Ron in the slightest, but gave you ten points for Gryffindor and moved on to the next table.

You noticed that he avoided Mattheo’s table, even though they were finished already. You remembered the rumors about your professor and Voldemort, that he'd been part of his Slugclub, and how Slughorn had been hiding from him ever since he was resurrected. You wondered what it had to be like, to be treated like an undesirable addition to his father’s horrors not only by the student body but also by his teacher. By you also. You had to recognize it. Though it was not as if you didn't have any reason to. Who would Mattheo have turned into if students and teachers alike hadn't already shaped a path for him that was so self-destructive?

Ten minutes later, Slughorn dismissed the class. Ron grabbed his bag with the words “I'm so hungry I'm gonna die” and lunged himself at the door before anyone else could. That left you to swipe the table clean and bottle up the potion for Slughorn. Hermoine had already taken off after Ron, but Harry waited for you by the door as you packed up your things and turned around, only to run into a solid obstacle. Stumbling back a few feet, you looked up to see Mattheo grinning at you. “Oops.” Behind him, Nott rolled his eyes.

Before Harry could come over and start a brawl, you brushed past Mattheo with a “no worries”, but he got a hold of your wrist and turned you around. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Harry shuffling closer. “Will you be at the game tomorrow, princess?”

“Of course,” you answered, unable to hide your smile. “Cheering for Gryffindor.”

“Naturally,” he said and his thumb brushed over your wrist where your pulse was. “I'll se you there, then.” And with a wink, he pushed past Harry and followed Nott out of the classroom. Once he'd departed, you met Harry’s eyes, and saw his raised brows.

“So, what was that about?” Harry asked as you climbed the steps up to the Great Hall. As you were quite late for lunch, no one crossed your path who might have listened to your conversation, so he didn't bother to hush his voice. There was a subtle frown on his face and you felt his eyes on you from beside you.

“What do you mean?” you asked, playing dumb, and he gave you a you’re-perfectly-aware kind of look. With a shrug, you picked at your shirt. You weren't prepared for this conversation.

“I've heard… rumors,” said Harry carefully and you whipped your head around. “Nothing like that!” he clarified hastily and raised his hands in mock surrender. “Just… some portraits said they'd seen you leave the library together yesterday after curfew. And, I don't know if you've noticed, but Riddle has been staring at you all the time for the last week. Ever since you had detention with him.”

“What?” you said, taken aback, because you hadn't really noticed any change in his demeanor outside of your nightly encounters. Harry shrugged. “At the start I thought he was staring at me, you know? But he's been looking at you in class, also. And, like, constantly.” He looked worried. “Is there anything…?”

“I'm not- we're not- I’d never-”, you spluttered out, but Harry gave you a reassuring smile. “I get it, just wanted to make sure.”

“I'm sorry,” you said, biting your lips and staring at your feet. “I've been talking to him a few times since the detention and… well…,” you were grappling with accurate words to describe how you felt about Mattheo Riddle. Because you would lie if you said you planned to stay away from him. “We're not friends,” you told him quickly, “I still hate his guts, and I know you and him have this enmity-”

“Really, y/n, you don't have to defend yourself or anything,” Harry assured you. “You're not betraying our friendship or Gryffindor or whatever by talking to Riddle.” His lip twitched slightly. “No matter what Ron might tell you.”

“Oh God,” you groaned as you reached the foyer and emerged from the dungeon staircase. “Does everyone know?”

“No,” Harry said quickly and gave you a reassuring smile. “We're just all worried. He's bad news. You know that. And, especially given your parents, he’s also dangerous.” Ah, yes. Your parents. But the news of your muggle heritage hadn't seemed to deter Mattheo, nor had he showed any aggression towards you. But, you thought to yourself determinedly as you walked through the doors over to the bustling Gryffindor table, if these meetings were to continue, you'd have to bring it up eventually, test his reaction.

“Hey,” Harry stopped you before you could reach the others and you turned to him. “I'm sorry if we're being too pushy with this,” he said seriously, “but you really should stay away from him. Come on.” With a little smile, he opened his arms and you hugged him tightly, wondering what he would say if he knew that you were already on first name basis with Mattheo.

Mattheo's hand tightened around his goblet as he watched you over at the Gryffindor table, your arms wrapped around Potter in a tight hug. His jaw ticked involuntarily, the sharp annoyance flaring up before he even had the chance to smother it. He told himself it was ridiculous, you and him weren't exactly anything, just a handful of late night talks that shouldn't have happened in the first place. But something about seeing you with him, with fucking Potter of all people, seeing you smile at him, made his stomach twist in ways he didn't want to think about. Potters hand rested comfortably on your back, and Mattheo's scowl deepened, his gaze darting away as if that would somehow help.

He attempted to focus on the conversation at his own table, nodding absently as Blaise said something that earned a round of chuckles from his friends, but the sound barely reached him. His mind was stubborn, circling back to the sight of you with Potter. He didn't have the right to be annoyed- he knew that- but the irritation was there all the same, coiling in his chest like a restless serpent. A part of him wanted to march over there, grab Potter and smash his face into the fucking wall for touching what was his- but you weren't. You weren't his, and your reaction if he attacked Potter right on front of you was enough for him to bury the idea. Instead, he forced forced his gaze back to his plate, his appetite gone, and told himself he didn’t care. But deep down, the jealousy burned, leaving a bitter taste that even the sweetest wine couldn’t wash away. Only you could, but you were unreachable. In more ways than one.

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