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cherrixpie · 8 days ago

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NEMESIS

part five of six (surprise :3)

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

↬ sfw; wc: 10.0k (i saw this coming); cw: violence, blood, broken bones, swear words; tags: gryffindor!reader, muggleborn!reader, enemies to lovers

( masterlist )

Dorothy Dankworth had been a chatterbox even when she was alive. Since her portrait had adopted her most prominent trait, she was the main source of gossip and information for the portraits all over the castle. The moment she saw the Chosen One’s close, muggleborn friend and the Dark Lord’s son tucked away in her forgotten chamber, giggling like co-conspirators and the indecent kiss on the cheek they would have been publicly shunned for in Dorothy’s lifetime, she knew she'd stumbled upon something scandalous. As soon as the Riddle boy had closed the door behind him with a last look through the room, she sprung up from her seat and left her frame, her painted skirts swishing in her wake.

The next two dozen hours, she spent flitting through portrait after portrait, relaying the story to anyone willing to listen. From the stern witches of the Transfiguration corridor to the rowdy group of drunken monks down near the kitchens, Dorothy's story evolved with each telling, peppered with more detail and insinuation until it was less about a tutoring lessons and more about a scandalous romance. By the next evening, gossip had spread around the portraits until even up at the Gryffindor tower, a certain portrait caught wind of the story. And she'd never been one to keep news to herself either.

Blissfully unaware of the storm brewing, you left your shift at the Hospital Wing that evening, joining the crowds of students flooding towards the Great Hall for dinner. Your hands were still stinging from the way you'd poked yourself with the needle due to your lack of concentration. The previous night kept replaying in your mind, especially Mattheo’s kiss on your cheek, the sensation of his surprisingly soft lips. In your memory, it was a confused whirlwind of laughter, his infuriatingly beautiful eyes and the Smiths playing in the background.

As any time you'd find yourself in a crowd these days, you subtly turned your head, on the lookout for a certain Slytherin with brown curls. You did manage to spot him, strolling along with his friends and a toothpick dangling from his lips in place of the usual cigarette. He was staring straight ahead as Malfoy talked animatedly beside him. When you passed them, you distinctly made out the words “Potter with his perfect flying and his perfect scar-”.

Spontaneously, you flashed him a little smile over your shoulder, and for the split of a second, your eyes met and his crinkled with amusement. But before someone could detect your silent exchange, you hastened your step and left them behind, Malfoy's voice still drawling, but being drowned out more and more as you approached the hall alongside a wave of Ravenclaws.

When you stepped into the Entrance Hall, where students were steadily accumulating, you glanced around for your friends and caught sight of Harry, Ron and Hermoine walking down the stone stairs to Gryffindor tower, engaged in lively conversation. Hermoine seemed to be talking to Ron insistently as she gesticulated wildly, Harry’s gaze flickered from one to the other and Ron looked like he was plotting a murder, fists clenched and staring ahead darkly. His cheeks were almost as red as his hair, seemingly burning with indignation. Thinking it was just another petty argument between him and Hermoine, you waved at them and Ron spotted you first. But instead of lighting up or waving back, his gaze turned only more sinister. He nudged the others and then made a beeline towards you, Harry and Hermoine struggling to keep up and exchanging worried looks.

Clutching your book bag, you froze in place and watched them approach with widened eyes, students moving around you but you didn't really see them. What on earth could this be about? It couldn't be…? Ron pushed through a gaggle of third year Hufflepuffs before coming to a halt before you, breathing unevenly and outright furious. “Tell me it's a lie. Please, tell me it's not true,” he growled with balled fists and you stared up at him with wide eyes, completely perplexed, maybe because you didn't want to think, didn't want to imagine that they'd found out about you and their worst enemy sneaking off together in secret.

“Ron what are you even talking about?” You asked, nervously, and took a step back. Out of your peripheral vision, you could make out several heads near you turning towards the scene Ron was causing with his shouting. Ron's frown only deepened and he didn't reciprocate your anxious little smile. “We heard something from the fat lady- something I really, really don't want to believe about you.”

“What are you even saying?” You exclaimed, an edge of desperation in your tone, and you glanced around nervously. To your horror, you caught a glimpse of green near the doors, meaning that the first of the procession from the dungeons must've reached the entrance hall. You could only pray Mattheo was still trailing behind his friends.

“Don't act stupid!” Ron exclaimed angrily, throwing his hands into the air. You threw a helpless look at the other two, somehow still hoping this was some sort of prank. But Hermoine looked at you very seriously and Harry’s eyes had narrowed, and neither of them held Ron back when he roared: “Please tell me you're not fucking Mattheo Riddle!”

“What?!” you spluttered in indignation and glanced around nervously to see how many people had heard him. “What the hell, Ron, I’d never-” You fell silent. You would, probably. But, you reminded yourself stubbornly, you hadn't. “Where did you hear that? Who said I-?”

“The portrait of Dorothy Dankworth saw you together,” Ron pressed, carefully watching your reaction. “The fat lady told us some interesting things about your little meetup with Riddle.” He spat out the name as if it was poisonous and you felt a pinch of anger in your chest.

“You're going to trust the fat lady with information?” you bit back and folded your arms over your chest defiantly, but Ron was undeterred. “Well, then, deny it!”

That shut you up effectively. If you lied to them now and they'd find out anyway, you would lose their trust indefinitely. And you also didn't want to lie to your friends, but their reaction was just like you'd imagined. You let out a deep breath and squared your shoulders as if that would protect you against their scrutiny. It wasn't like you didn't understand why they were angry. They didn't know him like you did. They didn't know he could be funny, kind, caring, passionate and, most of all, nothing like his father.

“I did meet him,” you said, fighting to keep your voice composed as Ron did an indignant intake of air and Hermoine's frown deepened. “But it wasn't like that. I'm-,” you hesitated for a split second, but Harry's eyes narrowed further nonetheless, “I'm tutoring him in muggle studies.”

“You're tutoring him?” Ron roared as if you'd just confessed to killing his grandma, “Are you stupid?!” You recoiled slightly at his harsh tone and shame rose in you when you realized half the hall had stopped talking and was looking over at Ron, who was fuming with outrage. “Have you lost your bloody mind? Tutoring Riddle? You're cozying up to a death eater in the making!” As you opened your mouth to reply, Ron cut you off. “How long has this been going on? Huh? Weeks? Months?”

“He asked me after the quidditch game,” you replied with an honesty your friends couldn't appreciate. “You mean right after he tried to kill Harry with that bludger?” asked Hermoine, appalled, and you frowned defensively. “He didn't try to kill him, don't be ridiculous.”

“Don't you even think of defending him!” Ron called, oblivious to the turning heads. “Don't you get it? He knows that you're close to Harry, he's just planning to get closer to him and you're letting him! Just because he's pretty!” Hermoine tugged at his sleeve to get him to consider the crowd, but Ron's remedy to talking himself into a rage. You were frozen in place, unable to move or defend yourself. It was horrible, what he threw at you, so horrible you couldn't even find the words to reply. Though you knew they'd not take kindly and you understood them well, you'd never have thought you'd one day be scared of Ron. “He's you-know-who’s son,” he bellowed, “And you're throwing yourself at him!”

“I'm not!” you exclaimed, but it sounded more like a plea than anything else. “And he's not using me, I'm just tutoring him, I swear!” Remembering his words, a hint of anger finally crept into your tone. “And he's not his father, he's nothing like him!”

Suddenly, you caught a movement out of the corner of your eyes. It was so small, and should have disappeared into those of the crowd, but somehow, you were drawn to it, as if it had been highlighted by a stage light. Your heart sank. It was Mattheo, behind him his group of Slytherin friends. He was standing at the edge of the crowd, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your stomach drop. His jaw was clenched so tight you thought it might snap, and his hands were balled into fists at his sides, barely restrained fury radiating off of him.

There was a dangerous edge to his stance, the kind of tension that promised violence if someone as much as breathed the wrong way. You could see the way his gaze now darted between Harry and Ron, as if calculating how quickly he could get to the latter and shut him up for good. And yet, beneath the storm of anger, you thought you could make out something else- something almost protective- that made your already racing heart pound only faster against your ribcage, though you couldn't decide whether it was in fear or something more … complicated.

When you locked eyes with him, you shook your head pleadingly, and to your utter surprise, the hand that had been wandering to his wand halted. You'd never seen him look so serious as when he now raised a brow at you, that had your breath caught up in your throat. He was waiting for your signal, your permission- even though Ron said all these horrible things about him. When you shook your head subtly, he took a small step back, though still glaring at Ron and vigilant.

“Can't you hear yourself?” Harry chimed in, hands balled into fists also. Hermoine, who seemed to get increasingly embarrassed by all the attention, tried to tug them towards the Great Hall, but he fended her off and looked at you angrily. “He's already manipulating you, you can't trust him!”

“His father’s you-know-who, for Merlin's sake,” Ron spat, “Do you need it spelled out for you? You're so naive if you think he's different. You're muggleborn, he'd probably kill you without even fucking blinking the moment he has the chance!” You threw a nervous glance back at Mattheo, but his features seemed set in stone, unmovable, as he stared at Ron. Berkshire’s hand hovered over his shoulder, as if he was just waiting for him to snap and to have to hold him back from launching at Ron, but Mattheo showed no signs of attack except for his predatory stance. His friend’s eyes flickered towards you quickly and you looked away. “You have no idea what you're talking about!” you said, glaring and holding onto your bag for support, as if his next words would roll over you and bring you down like a storm. And they did.

With a humorless laugh, Ron balled his fists and stepped closer to you. “You're smarter than this- or at least I thought you were. But clearly, you'll believe anything as long as he says it with that stupid smirk of his! You're so fucking naive, risking everything-our trust, your safety-for some slimy Slytherin who probably laughs about you behind your back!”

His words hit you like a gut punch. They were designed to hurt, by someone you trusted taking advantage of your insecurities. Your hands started to shake and you gripped your handle tighter, willing yourself not to cry, not now, not here, not with everyone watching. You opened your mouth to speak, to defend yourself or him, but only a broken little noise emerged from your throat. Your defense seemed to fall from your lips and shatter like glass on the cold stone of the floor, right between you and the friend you'd trusted to never hurt you like this.

When the tears came, they were inevitable, burning in your eyes and finally slipping past your crumbling barrier. Embarrassment washed over you and you tried to wipe them off with a shaky hand, but it was in vain as now, as if a dam had broken. More tears emerged from your eyes and streaked down your cheeks as you suppressed the sobs with all your might. In front of you, Ron's chest stopped heaving suddenly, as if he had just sobered up from a moment of drunken madness, and you saw a hint of regret in his eyes. But, when he stepped closer, you took an instinctive step back. However, Ron didn't get the chance to say anything further, because the sudden sound of someone clapping pierced through the dense, tension-heavy air like a knife.

Mattheo's entire body tensed when he saw the tears stream down your face, saw your lower lip wobble, your wide, vulnerable eyes and your shoulders trembling under the weight of Weasley’s cruel words. Everything but a stranger to rage and violence, he'd only ever felt it on his behalf, or towards himself. This was new. It was like a switch flipped in his mind, an overwhelming roar thrumming against his ears and drowning out everything except the image of you breaking right in front of him. Fury coursed through his veins, hot and all-consuming, but beneath the rage, there was something that caught him off guard- an ache he couldn't name, sharp and suffocating, digging into his chest like a knife.

He hated seeing you like this, hated the way your pain seemed to ripple through you, almost hated you for making him feel as if he was falling apart with you. But he was. Seeing you cry set his every nerve on fire. How fucking dare Weasley make you feel like this? His hands curled and uncurled to fists so hard his nails dug into his palms, the raw sting being the only thing grounding him just enough to keep from charging through the onlookers immediately. But with every second he watched you recoil into yourself with hurt and shame, it became harder to hold back. He didn't even realize he was already approaching you, a low growl rumbling in his throat as his fury trembled just below his breaking point. No one made you cry- especially not some self-righteous Gryffindor.

As you whirled your head around, just like every single person in the hall, you saw Mattheo emerge from their midst, clapping his hands together. His fury was visible in his tense shoulder as and clenched jaw, barely contained and moments away from exploding. He sauntered towards Ron, a sly grin on his lips as he watched him up and down. Ron, reacting wisely, took a step back, his eyes flickering from Riddle’s wand-less hands to his face with hardly contained nervousness. “Congratulations, Weasley,” Mattheo grinned menacingly, his dark eyes glinting like ignited matches about to meet oil. “You just won yourself a prize.”

Then, Mattheo did the most curious thing- he stepped closer to Ron, so there was barely any room left, closing up on him as Ron inched back, and with an almost crazy, humorless grin, patted his cheek softly. Then, within the split of a second, he brought his arm back and his fist met Ron's jaw with a resounding crack. As Ron stumbled back, Mattheo grabbed his collar, kicked his shin and brought him to his knees. One hand held his head in place as he slammed his fist down on it again and again.

Drops of blood flew through the air and every hit produced a disgusting squelching sound as Ron roared in pain, grabbed Mattheo around the waist and attempted to slam him to the ground. But it was to no avail, as the latter spat in his face and launched himself towards Ron once more, making him feel every little bit of the hurt he'd caused you. Mattheo's head was thrumming with a mix of fury and the adrenaline-induced excitement of a good fight, but it was neither that made him ram his fists into every bit of Ron he could reach over and over again.

The image of you flashed before his eyes, of you crying, of you shaking. If he were the himself of a few months ago, he'd have scoffed at your weakness, called it pathetic. But now, nothing could equal the rage he felt seeing you hurt. When Weasley managed the occasional blow to his face, he didn't even register the pain, his mind taken over by a mindless need to punish him for making you cry. And any bit of pain he'd feel later as his knuckles cracked and bled, as Ron's fist met his jaw and nose and his own blood dropped down on the ginger beneath him, it would be deserved. Deep down, he knew it was his fault, maybe he even knew he was making it worse. But he didn't care, his mind overtaken by a sudden burst of hatred.

You stood, frozen, unable to move, as the crowd screamed, horrified, and the squelches of blood filled the air. Mattheo was punching Ron in silent concentration, it seemed, and he looked wild as a beast. His beautiful curls hung from his face as he caughed up blood and kicked and hit Ron without any care for defending himself, or shielding himself. You had to stop this, you were vaguely aware that this had to be your fault, but you couldn't, you were rooted to the spot as if you'd been hexed into immobilization.

Finally, the crowd burst apart as Professor McGonnagall and Professor Snape approached, alerted by the noisy onlookers. Nott, who hadn't moved in, either to help Mattheo or to break up the fight, now surged forward when he saw them and ripped Mattheo off of Ron forcefully, their fellow Slytherin's aiding him as they pulled Mattheo away from Ron, who was heaving and whimpering, his face a bloody mess. Mattheo, though looking far better off, had blood seeping down his face as well, struggling against his friend’s hold wildly.

Not even Theo’s harsh reminders of the Professor’s presence could clear the blood-red fog in Mattheo's head, clouding all reasonable thought. Oh, how ecstatic he felt when he could let someone pay for this fucking world, and how much better it felt to make someone pay for hurting you. But, unlike usual, his anger didn't subside when he saw the recipient of his wrath lay broken and bleeding on the ground. Hate pulsed through him in violent surges, even as Theo’s hands dug into his arms and his hissed warnings fell on deaf ears. Nothing could get through to him- until he saw you.

Still clutching your back, you stood rooted to your spot, eyes locked onto Ron’s coughing and bleeding figure. They were widened in horror, your shoulders raised in apprehension. Your shaken look washed over him like a tidal wave and sobered him up just as effectively. Mattheo stopped trashing against his friends’ hold, unable to do anything but stare at your widened eyes as dread and regret submerged him into their depths, making him unable to breathe or to think, suffocated by the weight of the realization what he'd done. He'd made you afraid of him. In your eyes, he had to have confirmed all your friends’ warnings.

Finally, you were able to tear your eyes away from Ron and frantically searched the crowd for Mattheo, spotting his bloody figure being dragged away by the combined efforts of his friends. When they emerged from the crowd, Mattheo seemed to snap out of some sort of fever and pushed Nott off of him. Without looking at you, he took off towards the entry gates and students burst out of his way, scrambling to not stand in his path. With a resounding pound, he pushed open the gates and slammed them shut behind him.

Mattheo had barely ever felt worse than he did right now. Scratch that, he had never felt worse. Not when he'd been tortured by his father, not when he'd almost suffered death at the hands of his mother. What did he have to lose then? The cold night air hit his skin and made his scratches sting aggressively, but he made no efforts to heal them. He knew he deserved the pain. A cruel sort of satisfaction pulsed through him as he pressed down on the cut near his jaw, until the image of you flashed through his mind, how you’d stitched up his wound after the quidditch game.

But you weren't here now, he reminded himself. He'd scared you away, he'd lost you, just like all the good he'd ever had in his life, he didn't deserve you. You were right to be horrified, yet, the bitterness consumed him. How could he ever have hoped to be worthy of you? He tried to drown out the memory of you frowning at his smoking after the quidditch game and drew a pack of cigarettes from his inside pocket. His hands were trembling, for some reason, covered in blood and barely managing to pull out a cigarette and lighting it with a flick of his wrist.

Putting the burning smoke between his lips, he took a drag of it and the momentary relief flooded his mind. Though his bleeding lip stung in protest, he took another drag and breathed in the smoke. With uneasy steps, he walked down the stairs to the entrance hall until its golden light had given way to nightly darkness and he slumped down on one of the steps, taking continuous drags out of the cigarette. Self-loathing burned through him as he stared into the darkness. Why did he have to destroy everything that was good and kind in his cruel world?

When the sound of steps met his ears, he could have growled in frustration, until he realized that the steps were far too light and hesitant to be Theo’s. For a second he considered Pansy, but he knew who it was, really. You'd come, and he wished you hadn't. He wished he wouldn't have to look you in the eye and see the inevitable accusation, consequence of his stupidity. You'd been right there. Why couldn't he have waited to get Weasley somewhere you wouldn't see? Somewhere you wouldn't be, so you'd never know what kind of monster you'd been defending. No, he truly didn't deserve you.

The footsteps came to a halt a step back, but Mattheo didn't turn his head. He was a coward. All he could do was stare at the burning ember between his fingers as you took another step and sat down next to him on the stairs. You didn't speak, but Mattheo wished you would scream at him, so that he could dismiss you as just another person who hated him. But your silent accusation was much, much worse. The longer it went on, the more Mattheo’s head thrummed with the added pain of the bruises and cuts against the cool night air, until he couldn't take it anymore.

“You don't have to say it,” Mattheo's voice cut through the cold air in between you, loaded up with simmering tension. “If you're just here to yell at me, know that I've heard it all and just go.” Surprised, you turned to look at him, taking him all in. His curls hung into his eyes in a way that made you want to brush them away. But even if it'd been appropriate, you wouldn't have wanted to hurt the bleeding cut on his temple further. A burning cigarette dangled off his lips and his hands, covered in blood, wrung in his lap.

“Why did you do it?” you asked quietly, not moving an inch. The scene that had just taken place seemed to cling to you both, making you unable to face each other. Your thoughts were scattered and unfocused, still hurting from Ron’s words and caught in a whirlwind of concern for both of the boys. McGonnagall had started dragging Ron, who was unable to walk, to the hospital wing, but Mattheo's injuries had stayed unattended to. You felt the strong desire to reach over, take his hands into yours and treat his cuts and bruises, but you knew he wouldn't let you. When you glanced over, you caught him pressing down on one of his cuts, making more blood seep from it, down, get caught up in his brow. Following the drop of blood with your eyes, they suddenly fell onto his.

Mattheo hadn't intended to defend himself. Attempting to defend himself would open him up to rejection of his desperate plea for you to understand, to forgive, to card your soft and unsullied hands through his hair and tell him that everything was going to be alright. Stupid daydreams, fucking delusions, yet he couldn't help the words that fell from his lips when he locked eyes with you and his self-loathing was overpowered by a sudden surge of fear, to see the same look of disgust and horror on your face that he had been getting ever since he set foot in the school. “I saw you cry and everything just… disappeared.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, but there was no malice in your expression. Of course there wasn't. Because you were a fucking angel. Next to you, he was a greedy demon. “Wait,” you said, your voice somewhat softer than before, and leaned closer. Mattheo wished you hadn't, because the way your eyes glinted up close reminded him of that fateful night in the kitchens. You looked just as pretty now, only that he was now willing to admit it to himself. “You beat him up for … me?”

Mattheo shrugged roughly and looked away from you to take another drag out of his cigarette. The smoke emerged from his lips in fascinating shapes that your eyes clung to as he answered. “‘Course, what did you think?” Your gaze dropped to your hands as you played with your fingers, deep in thought. You had just assumed it had been Ron’s comments about Mattheo that had set him off, but he sounded too blunt to be dishonest. Per usual.

“Well,” you said hesitantly and stealing another glance at him. “He said some pretty awful things about you as well.”

Mattheo looked up in surprise, but when he met your gaze, his jaw clenched. Of course, you'd think of him, even after what he'd done to Weasley. Your eyes were sharp and steady, but when you shifted closer to him, he could practically feel the warmth radiating off of your body. “But he was right,” he said roughly and squashed out his cigarette. Glowing embers floated towards the ground and melted the snow where they landed.

“What do you mean?” you asked softly, and he refused to look at you. “I didn't need tutoring in muggle studies. I just wanted to take advantage of your kindness and be able to have you to myself more often.” His monotone voice couldn't betray the storm brewing in his chest. You needed to know, for some reason, you needed to know. He had to come clean now, he wanted to watch your face fall as he tore apart the image you had of him so you'd finally stop looking at him with these wide, good eyes that looked so unfairly beautiful.

Your heart beat hard against your ribs as you processed his words. Why did he want you to himself more often? Had the kiss on the cheek last night meant anything more than friendship? Doubt and excitement curled in your stomach. Could Mattheo Riddle really like you like that? You'd never really been someone’s priority, yet, tonight, he'd fought Ron for you. Not that you condoned his behavior. “Why did you want me all to yourself?” you finally dared to ask, your voice shaking slightly.

Mattheo didn't answer, only taking another cigarette out of his pack and igniting it via wandless magic. You guessed it was the stress paired with the need to do something with his hands, the last one you could emphasize with. Because you didn't smoke, your fingers fiddled absentmindedly with your school skirt until they closed around the hem in a decisive manner. Thankfully, your voice was steady when you addressed him once more. “You do know, though, don't you?” you asked, attempting to meet his gaze. “That I don't see you like Ron does.”

A bitter chuckle left his lips, along with another curl of smoke that danced in the air between you, as if it was mocking you. When he spoke, his voice was hard and closed off, allowing no room for discussion. “Didn't I just prove him right?” It was technically a question, but he seemed to have decided the matter already, which made an unsuspected surge of anger flare up in you.

“No!” you said, louder than you'd intended, and your raised voice finally seemed to shake him up enough to bring himself to look at you. Your heart seized when you realized he'd averted his eyes because they were glistening traitorously. You reached over to grab his hand, it was slimy with blood, but you didn't care. To your relief, Mattheo seemed too stunned by your touch to say something. “You're nothing like your father,” you said, emphasizing each word in a desperate attempt to convey what you thought of him, to correct whatever he believed you to think. “You're nothing like him,” you said again, gaze never so much as wavering.

Another small, humorless laugh filled the air as he swayed his head lightly, a bitter smile on his bleeding lips. He took another drag off the cigarette before taking it out of his mouth and blowing the smoke out softly, so it mingled and curled between the two of you, like a wall, or a blanket to hide himself under. Through the fog, you could still see the light shimmer in his dark eyes. “Darling, you just watched me beat your friend half to death,” he drawled, ironically, and turned from you once more when the smoke had subsided.

His bitterness and unwillingness to listen sparked defiance in you and you shuffled even closer to force him to look at you. “I never said you didn't have issues, darling,” you replied, matching his sarcasm. Mattheo laughed again, but this time, it was a genuine sort of chuckle he himself seemed surprised by. Suddenly, he winced lightly and another drop of blood emerged from his busted lip.

Almost instinctively, you reached over and wiped over his cheek to brush it away. One hand slipped into your inner jacket pocket as you pulled out the flask of murtlap juice you always carried around with you, just in case. Dabbing some onto your finger, you leaned even closer to him and softly ran your fingers over his lip, his cheek, his bruises and cuts. You felt him watching you when suddenly, he seized your waist and pulled you closer, making you gasp in surprise.

Mattheo couldn't believe it. Here you were, fretting over him, your brows furrowed in worry. Here you were, healing his scratches, when you should have been screaming, or crying, or coldly bidding him goodbye. As your hand ran over his cheek and threatened to reach the deepest gash, his hands seized either sides of your waist as if by instinct. The adorable little gasp it elicited to you was music to his undeserving ears, he hated the way he reveled in it. His thumbs brushed over your sides selfishly as he leaned closer and basked in the invisible light you spread. “Do you really think that?”

“I know it,” you said, softly now that you had finally reached him. You brushed off the remaining murtlap essence on your skirt and hesitantly cupped his cheeks with your hands. It felt strange to touch him, as if you were breaching museum guidelines by touching their marble statues. Statues higher than any living man who might have inspired them. “I used to think otherwise,” you confessed, unable to hide the tenderness in your voice, “but not anymore. I used to think you were all hard edges and cold ice, I once thought you couldn't feel pain, couldn't feel anything, really. But I know you now, and I know that I was wrong about you. Because the man I know can be kind and funny and so unlike what I thought he was.” A light frown adorned your face. “Mattheo, why do you keep pressing on that cut?”

He didn't have to say, because you knew, of course you did. Biting down on your lip, you searched his face for some sign to either stop or continue, but you couldn't find one. “Listen to me, Mattheo,” you said urgently, “you're not who they always told you you were.” You hadn't meant for your voice to drop to a murmur, and now it was like whispering secrets in class, unveiling hidden truths under the watchful eye of your worlds.

To your shock, you suddenly felt him tremble slightly under your touch and your eyes widened. Mattheo seemed to be suppressing the shaking of his shoulders, but his body twitched with suppressed emotion. Acting purely off of instinct, you surged forward and wrapped your arms around him.

The moment your arms wrapped around him, Mattheo froze, his breath catching as if all air had been knocked out of his lungs. He wasn't used to this- this kind of warmth, this kind of comfort, especially when he felt he didn't deserve it. For a good second, he didn't move, afraid that if he even breathed too hard, the fantasy would shatter, you'd pull away and leave him with the hollow ache he'd been carrying ever since he stormed out of the entrance hall. But then, as he felt your warm breath against his temple, as if it was living proof that he wasn't merely imagining things, or living through one of his fathers cruel nightmares, he caved in.

Slowly, Mattheo let himself sink into the embrace, his shoulders sagging as the tension seemed to bleed out of him. The blood from his face and hands tainted your white shirt, but you didn't seem to care, only softly stroking over his back in soothing patterns. You were good at this, too good. You surely had given, and had been given, many hugs in your life, you were an expert. His own hands hovered awkwardly at first as he became aware of the fact that he'd never actually been hugged like this. An irrational surge of panic flooded through him that he couldn't do it, didn't know how to return the gesture, that he couldn't hug you. But then, he hesitantly placed them on your back, suddenly clinging to you as if you were the only thing grounding him and keeping him from falling apart entirely.

Your touch softened the storm raging and roaring inside of him, but it also brought a lump to his throat that he couldn't swallow down. Because he couldn't help but think you deserved someone who knew how to give hugs.

“I'm not gonna go,” you said in a low voice, remembering how he’d dismissed you earlier, and felt him almost shudder under your touch. You couldn't quite grasp that you were hugging Mattheo Riddle, and he was hugging you back as if you were his lifeline, more so grabbing you than anything else, movements uncertain as if he wasn't quite sure what to do.

“You won't?” he suddenly whispered and you nodded your head as you ran a hand through his curls. God, how you had long dreamed of doing that. “Promise,” you said softly as you carded the strands through your fingers and drew patterns on his scalp.

He suddenly stirred, his hands fell from your back and down to your sides as they found your waist once more. With a careful but firm motion, he moved you onto the step next to him and turned to face you, a serious expression on his bloodied face. His dark eyes were almost glaring, though not at you, and he howered so close to you that you could feel his hot breath on your cheeks and, even in the dark, could see the golden sprinkles in his eyes. Your heart was beating so loudly you were surprised he didn't hear it, or maybe he did and didn't mention it. Was it the adrenaline of the fight acting, or just his usual flirtatiousness? Somehow, you thought it was neither.

“You know that I'd never hurt you, right?” he asked gravely, brows furrowed over his dark eyes. He'd never looked this beautiful before, in spite of the blood and the bruises.

“Yes,” you said, without hesitation, and some of the tension seemed to be leaving Mattheo as his shoulders relaxed slightly.

Encouraged by your words, he leaned even closer until his breath fanned your lips and your breath hitched slightly, making his lips and fingers twitch. “You know I'd fucking kill anyone who does?” he said, as if it were a vow. Both his voice and his eyes were steady and dead-serious, but his thumbs brushed over your sides tenderly.

“Mattheo, he didn't mean to,” you breathed, hardly knowing what you were saying anymore. His proximity made you dizzy, but you'd nothing to hold onto but him.

Mattheo groaned lightly, a sound of frustration, and dipped his head down to your neck. You prayed he couldn't hear how fast your pulse was going, would stock the goosebumps up to the cold night air that suddenly seemed so hot. “Don't you defend him,” he growled into your neck, nipping lightly at the skin there and eliciting a small squeak from you. Raising his head once more, he stared into your eyes with such intensity that your hands started to tremble under the weight of his gaze. “Fuck, I never want to see you cry again, princess.”

This was an irreversible breach of your previous platonicism, you knew there was no going back now, and, as always, your brain could scarcely keep up with him. He was a whirlwind, a force of nature, utterly destructive and terrifyingly beautiful, something you had admired from afar but always felt the pull towards. Now, you were too close, it was inevitable that you would be drawn to him completely, be pulled into his stormy midst, discover what lay behind his deadly armor. And God, how you didn't mind it one bit.

“Mattheo…,” you breathed, no words forming in your mind, just his name as you stared up into his dark eyes. They reflected the starry sky, and somehow, it was even more beautiful through his eyes than when you'd admired it from the grounds before your detention. The storm in them had subsided somewhat, or maybe, this was the eye of the storm, because in this moment, all there was in your world was him, his breathing, his voice, his touch and his serious eyes. Nothing else.

“I'd burn down the whole world for you,” he said heavily, and a nervous little chuckle fell from your lips. His eyes darted down to them. “There's six billion people in that world you want to burn down,” you reminded him, and his eyes snapped back up to yours as he frowned. Mattheos head swam as he leaned closer, his heart pounding hard against his ribs. He'd never wanted anything as much as he wanted this.

“I only care about one of them.”

As his lips met yours, it wasn't the reckless, impulsive kiss you'd half-expected. it was tender, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Thoughts reduced to the memory of his eyes and words and the feeling of his slightly chapped lips on yours. The kiss wasn’t just a spark; it was a thread pulling you closer to him, unraveling every doubt you may have had left about him. The faint metallic taste in your mouth couldn't deter you from deepening the kiss and burying your hands in his dark curls once more.

Mattheo could have died, right here, right now, so he could never ruin this moment. When you slipped your soft fingers into his hair, he let out a low groan that you answered with a hitched breath before he got a hold of your neck and pulled you against him once more. He was in fucking heaven, or at least as close to it as was possible for a creature like him. The hand that didn't hold your neck circled your waist and pulled you towards him, making you gasp into his mouth and giving him the chance to slip his tongue past your lips. The soft sigh it elicited from you made his head spin.

For a moment, he had to restrain himself from seizing you, kissing you until you couldn't breathe, sneak his hands under your neatly tucked shirt and bury them in your soft flesh, drawing out more of these damn noises that drove him absolutely crazy.

But, alas, you pulled away to catch your breath. Mattheo's lips chased after yours, and when you evaded him, he dipped down to trail soft pecks along the side of your neck, making you shudder with excitement. His voice vibrated against your vulnerable throat as he spoke. “Look, I'm not great at this kind of thing, but…,” he looked up and you found yourself helplessly lost in his soft brown eyes. “Would it be completely insane if I asked you to be my girlfriend?”

“I think you've never been closer to sanity, Mattheo,” you managed to chuckle before he claimed your lips once more, bruised fingers carding into your hair to pull you close. His teeth grazed your bottom lip as he dipped your head expertly.

“And it's all gone again,” he whispered in between kisses, sighing into your mouth before teasingly biting down on your bottom lip. He chuckled when you slapped the back of his head tenderly and he wiped some blood away from your face that had dribbled there from one of his cuts. His suddenly pensive eyes found yours again, though a teasing smile tugged at his lips as his thumb brushed over your kiss-bitten lips. “Don't worry, your big secret is safe with me. Wouldn't want anyone to know you’re dating the Dark Lord’s son.”

“Actually,” you said, averting your eyes to your hands. Taking his into yours and resting them on your lap, you looked up at him hesitantly. “I'd like not to hide it. If it's okay with you, of course.”

Mattheo seemed to freeze, a frown adorning his beautiful features. “What, really?” he asked, completely taken aback. His thumb was still brushing over your chin, though you were quite sure there were no remnants of blood left.

“Yeah,” you said, somewhat embarrassed by the fervent look on his face. “I mean, why wouldn't I want people to know that I managed to pull Mattheo Riddle?”

With a bitter chuckle, he shook his head. “That's not a brag, princess.”

But the look you gave him was one of utmost earnestness as your digits closed around his bruised up hands and you leaned forward. “It is to me.”

For a moment, all Mattheo could do was stare at you, not quite able to believe what he'd just heard. Your words echoed in his mind, breaking through every wall he'd spend years building, dismantling the armor he wore so tightly around himself. He felt something tighten in his chest- raw and entirely unfamiliar. “Are you… sure?” he asked, his voice quieter than he intended, laced with disbelief. When you nodded your head, a slow, almost disbelieving smile curved his lips, but his eyes shimmered with something deeper, something more vulnerable.

He ran a hand through his hair, laughing softly under his breath as though trying to process that someone like you could actually want to be with someone like him. For once in his life, he didn’t feel like the monster everyone said he was. Mattheo had never felt this soft, and he knew whatever you'd ever ask of him, he'd do it without doubt or hesitation. Because, fuck, he was so in love with you.

When entering the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning, Mattheo almost doubted the events of the last evening had even taken place. If it hadn't been for the sting in his lip. And you. It didn't take him more than a couple of seconds to spot you, sitting on the Gryffindor table next to the red haired Weasley girl. To his great relief, you were smiling as you put jam on your toast and laughed at something she said. Wishing he was close enough to hear the sound, he didn't even realize he had stopped walking until Enzo shoved his shoulder. “What's wrong?”

Before he could dismiss him, you looked up from your toast and somehow, as if by a magnetic force, your gaze landed on him. He'd expected you to give him one of your sweet smiles, maybe, if he was in luck, but you didn't. Instead, you said something to the Weasley girl and rose from your seat, walking along the Gryffindor table and making a beeline for the entrance. For him. Mattheo saw your eyes flicker to Enzo and the rest of his friends, somewhat shyly, and he pushed Enzo away roughly. “Go sit down.” They did without protest.

Mattheo turned back to you as you approached and came to a halt before him, almost indecisively. But then, without a word of greeting, you leaned up and placed your soft lips on his. Mattheo seemed to freeze for the split of a second, but then, both his hands cupped your face, pulled you impossibly closer and dipped you just right to devour you. His tongue slipped into your mouth before you could even register the sudden surge of intensity and you mewled slightly, completely helpless in his hold as his lips claimed yours again and again and again-

“Mr Riddle!”

You shot around violently and your cheeks flushed deep red when you saw Professor McGonnagall standing a few feet from you, hands on her hips and looking absolutely furious. Behind her, you could vaguely make out the gaping faces of students, and a whisper seemed to run through the hall, but Mattheo paid it no mind, nor did he your Transfiguration Professor. You felt his lips peppering kisses along your jaw and slapped the back of his head with a hiss. McGonnagall drew an indignant breath in through her nose, building herself up to her full height- which was quite considerable.

“This is a level of inappropriateness I do not accept from Hogwarts students,” she hissed at Mattheo, though refusing to look him in the eye properly. Mattheo had raised his brows, hands still around your neck as he hovered over you. “Now, really,” said Professor McGonnagall angrily. “Ten points off of Slytherin. And both of you, return to your house tables.”

You quickly pushed Mattheo off, who seemed reluctant to let you go. He gave McGonnagall a sinister glare before pressing one last kiss onto your cheek and smiling at you. “Good morning, princess.” Biting down on your bottom lip, you gave him a sheepish look that made it near impossible for him to walk away from you. But, alas, you turned to walk back to the Gryffindor table that had broken out into hushed whispers and pointed fingers.

As Mattheo strolled along the Slytherin table, he watched you sit down next to the Weasley girl who immediately jumped you with questions. There was an uncertain sensation in his stomach when he saw the way some of the Gryffindors gave you looks of disgust, the girls especially. As if half of them hadn't slept with him already, only for it to be their dirty little secret, and now they dared to point at you, who loved him openly. His jaw clenched when he saw Potter stand up from the table and brush past you without a word, but, as if you'd sensed his irritation, you glanced over and your lips twitched impossibly sweetly.

Sitting down in between Enzo and Theo, he held your gaze for a second before you looked away to address the Weasley girl. When he directed his attention to breakfast, he was instead faced with five sets of raised eyebrows. “So,” said Blaise, barely containing a smirk. “What the fuck happened last night? Must’ve really given her a good time of she's already forgotten that you beat Weasley into an infirmary bed.”

“Shut up,” growled Mattheo, twisting his knife between his fingers and glancing back at you, who seemed to get bombarded with questions by the Weasley girl. “I didn't.”

“Jeez, how’d you manage to soften little miss perfect up then?” said Pansy, also throwing a glance at you before turning back to them. “Can't have been your personality.” She ignored Mattheo's glare and dug into her scrambled eggs, still glancing behind herself every once in a while curiously. Mattheo didn't answer, only leaning back in his chair with the expression of someone who definitely wasn't in the mood for chatting. That couldn't deter his friends, though.

“I've got to know,” grinned Blaise teasingly and pointed his fork at his unwilling interlocutor. “Was this whole thing some sort of grand plan to mess with Weasley and Potter, or did you actually go soft for her?” Mattheo's eyes snapped up at him and his gaze darkened. “Don't you fucking say that to her.” “Oh, so you have!” cooed Blaise and Pansy started to giggle, causing Mattheo to roll his eyes at them.

But the platinum haired boy next to Blaise didn't seem very amused. A sour expression twisted his features as he watched his friend closely, the bacon long forgotten on his plate. “So you're just self-sabotaging for fun now?” Draco said through clenched teeth, his tone causing all heads but Mattheo's to turn. “How long do you think this will last, really? She’s a Gryffindor to her core, Mattheo. She’ll toss you aside the moment you show her who you really are.”

Enzo shot him a very firm look, but Mattheo didn't even bother acknowledging him. Frowning lightly, Enzo looked back at him, maybe to see whether he had spontaneously lost consciousness, but Mattheo only looked over to you, remembering how he'd promised you last night, before you'd slipped back into your common room: no fights tomorrow. He knew you were testing him, it only now became fully clear to him that you'd intentionally opened yourself up to public scrutiny. To get it over with, sure. Because you wanted people to know, fair. But also, because you knew it'd be a test of his restraint.

Not only Enzo stared at Mattheo when the latter chuckled lowly, eyes still locked on your figure as you finished your plate and rose from your seat to be perfectly on time for Arithmancy. He was glad to see that Granger joined you and seemed to strike up a hesitant conversation. Enzo’s eyes flickered between him and you. A slight smile played around his lips. “This was… unexpected. But good for you, mate, she's cute.” Draco scoffed and Mattheo clenched his fists, remembering your sweet smile and the promise he'd given to you.

The only one who’s opinion Mattheo cared about even slightly, as always, was Theo, but Theo did what he did best: silently staring into space and scowling. At any rate, he wasn't too keen to keep on talking about the matter, so he rose from the table. Pansy frowned when he grabbed his back. “You haven't eaten a thing.”

“Oh,” grinned Blaise, “my bet is he wants to be punctual to impress his girlfriend.” His girlfriend. His. The thought made Mattheo's lips twitch involuntarily, and Blaise slammed his hand into the table, grinning. “See? I was right! Look at that smile! Merlin, Mattheo, you're down so bad.”

He was, fucking hell, he was so down bad for you. But he left his friends without another word, approaching the stone steps as even more heads than usual turned after him. A sudden worry churned in his chest. Yes, you were his. But being his brought certain dangers. As long as his friends didn't let anything slip, and as long as you were at Hogwarts, anyway, you were safe from his father at least. But Mattheo knew his father wouldn't be the only one disapproving of your relationship.

Over the course of the next days, the topic of your unlikely relationship with Mattheo was the main issue of interest all around the castle. In the following week, you could barely pass someone in the halls without them sticking their heads together in hushed whispers. Everyone who had missed your kiss at breakfast was now greatly informed about it, in a level of detail you guessed most of them lacked in their exams. Curious, how your private business was more interesting to people than the goblin riots of the fifteenth century and their present implications on wizarding goblin relations, though you couldn't deny that this new gossip was the exact type of thing that would catch people's interest.

The whispering wasn't what bothered you, it was the assumptions made about you, and about Mattheo. Only that Mattheo was used to scrutiny and nasty rumors, which was new territory for you. Many students, for example, seemed to assume you to be in danger, especially those of Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff house. Not that their concern wouldn't have been sweet any other day, but it bothered you how people always assumed the worst about Mattheo, now that you had gotten to know the real him.

When you'd relayed these worries to Mattheo one warmer afternoon at the lake when the ice had melted and you could sit on the grass, he'd chuckled appreciatively, calling you his sweet girl for being outraged about how people treated him. He'd said he couldn't be bothered less how they thought of him, but you suspected it was more so that he had gotten used to the worst. You wished others would see him the way you did, but Mattheo didn't exactly make it easy for them either. Not when, anytime someone pointed at the two of you walking together in the halls, he cast them a threatening look and had to be held back by your soft touch.

With some, this had earned you the title of a monster tamer, which bothered you even more than the worried assumptions, but was a great source of amusement for Mattheo. When he'd first heard it from you as you recounted someone using the word with poised lips, he'd laughed outright and shuffled around so his head was in your lap. Getting a hold of your wrist, he'd guided your hand to his hair and practically purred how you'd managed to tame the beast with your incredible sweetness and brilliance. Embarrassingly, you'd blushed, only making his grin widen.

By far the most negative reception was that of your own house. Most Gryffindors considered your relationship with you-know-who’s son a betrayal of house honor. Some seemed to think you superficial, which in turn greatly troubled Mattheo while you only rolled your eyes at it, tugging him back whenever someone made a snide comment.

To your immense surprise, however, Mattheo hadn't gotten into a single fight since his promise, even though he had more material to work with than ever. And, last Tuesday, one of his friends, Lorenzo Berkshire, had even approached you panting as you came from your runes class to get you down to the Great Hall quickly to stop Mattheo from picking a fight with a mouthy Gryffindor sixth year.

Meanwhile, Mattheo had turned into more of a gentleman than you’d ever have imagined. He walked you to class whenever possible, interlocking your fingers, giving you sweet kisses before class, waiting for you afterwards and stealing small moments of affection all over the castle. You were sure you knew every broom cupboard in Hogwarts from the inside by now, as it was his preferred place to drag you in your breaks. As Berkshire snitched you as a thanks for keeping Mattheo in check, he was already planning your date for the following Hogsmeade weekend, sending you into a frenzy whether you even had anything to wear for such an occasion.

Ron had been released from the hospital wing two days after his fight with Mattheo, still littered with bruises and cuts and having incredible trouble chewing, since Mattheo had broken his jaw. When you'd told him, he'd smiled smugly into your hair, you couldn't see it but hear it in his voice as he murmured “too fucking bad for him, then.” Ron wasn't talking to you, and you made no efforts to approach him either, following Hermoine's advice and waiting until he came around to the idea at least a little. Even though you were frustrated at how long even that took.

Harry had been a little more forgiving. After a few days of awkward silent treatment, you'd talked as the last two people in the common room. And after you'd practically written his whole charms homework for him, he found it in himself to forgive you, though he was still disapproving and highly distrustful of your relationship. You, who hadn't expected much more, were merely relieved that you were on speaking terms again and did your best to avoid the topic of Mattheo with him around, trying not to set him off. You hadn't forgotten the confrontation in the Entrance Hall.

Hermoine was easily the most forgiving out of the three. Though she, too, did neither trust nor like Mattheo and was worried for you, she still recognized that it was your decision and trusted your judgement on whether he was a danger to you or not. After countless reassurances, she'd finally stopped awkwardly standing beside you when Mattheo kissed you before and after class, and you were glad about it. Now, as you were walking down the steps on Saturday evening for dinner, she talked to you in a tone that didn't even indicate your previous argument in the slightest.

“And so I told him that goblins have contributed a lot to the field of magical science, at least three times, mind you. And in the test, when asked about the accomplishments of goblins in the wizarding world, he writes about their creative name giving!” Hermoine scoffed incensedly and shook her head as you ascended towards the Entrance Hall. “Seriously, he never listens!”

But before you could answer, Luna Lovegood approached you up the steps against the wave of Gryffindors walking in the opposite direction. Slightly out of breath, she came to a halt before the two of you and directed her large eyes at you. “Professor Dumbledore wants to see you in his office.”

You exchanged an incredulous look with Hermoine and frowned. “Why?”

Luna shrugged, her voice dreamy. “I think your new boyfriend got into a fight.” Seemingly unaware about your sudden intake of breath, she smiled, as if all was said, and turned around to follow the string of students approaching the Great Hall, leaving you shocked. You'd known the peace wouldn't last forever. But Mattheo could handle himself. How could the fight have been so bad that you were called to Dumbledore’s office? Was he hurt badly?

Just when you were about to start hyperventilating, you felt Hermoine's hand on your shoulder. She looked serious, but not angry. “Dumbledore’s office, remember?” You nodded, bidded Hermoine goodbye and sifted through the students, heart leaping to your chest in worry as you hurried to the headmaster’s office. What on earth could he have done this time?

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