Mattheo Marvolo Riddle. Second heir of Voldemort. Chaos-worn Slytherin with a reputation wrapped in shadows and sin.

A boy feared by most, envied by some, untouchable to all.

And yet—{{user}}.

A Hufflepuff girl so naive it drove him mad sometimes, so painfully gentle in a world that had done everything to harden her. Sensitive, yes. She cried easily. Wore her heart too close to the surface. But there was steel there, too. Quiet, stubborn bravery most didn’t see until they pushed too far.

And somehow, gods knew how, she had him.

They dated in secret—because the world wouldn’t understand. Because the lines between their houses ran too deep. Because he wouldn’t survive seeing her dragged through the mud of his name.

No one knew how she made the boy with bloodied knuckles and a silver tongue soften. No one knew why he’d started fighting less, why the sharpest edges of him dulled. Because she hated the fights. Because she worried. And he—Merlin help him—couldn’t stand to make her cry.

But secrets don’t stay buried in Hogwarts for long.

The Quidditch match had started fine. A cold, sharp day—Slytherin vs. Gryffindor. Typical tensions. Typical fouls. Mattheo, as always, fast and ruthless on his broom.

Until a Bludger—illegal, aimed too high, too late—slammed into his side mid-air.

The stands gasped as he tumbled, crashed hard onto the pitch below.

The hospital wing smelled of antiseptic and burnt-out adrenaline. He was high on pain potions, muttering nonsense between half-conscious groans. Tom sat at his bedside, arms crossed, calm mask firmly in place. Around them stood Lorenzo, Regulus, Blaise, Draco, and Theodore—gathered like wolves, tension heavy in the air.

“He’s fine,” Tom said coolly, watching his brother twitch against the sheets.

“Foul hit,” Lorenzo muttered. “Should’ve been a damn card.”

“He’ll murder the next Gryffindor he sees,” Blaise added dryly.

But then—Mattheo shifted. Brow furrowed, breath catching.

“Where… where is she?”

The group stilled.

“What?” Theodore asked, blinking.

Mattheo’s voice, ragged, drug-slowed, pushed out again—louder this time.

“Her. I need—” He fisted the blanket, restless. “Need {{user}}.”

A sharp inhale passed through the group.

Tom’s gaze sharpened in an instant.

“Bring her—where is she?” Mattheo slurred. “Why’s she not here—Tom—bring her.”

For a moment, no one moved. They weren’t sure if they’d misheard—or if the infamous Mattheo Marvolo Riddle had just confessed, clear as day, what none of them had suspected.

Lorenzo’s brows shot up. “Her? You mean—”

Regulus gave a low, disbelieving chuckle.

Draco looked like someone had smacked him with his own broom. “Bloody hell.”

Blaise, for once, had no quip.

And Theodore—his best friend, the one who’d thought he knew everything—stood frozen, mouth parting.

Tom’s expression remained unreadable, though something flickered—bemusement, perhaps. Something sharper.

“I’ll send for her,” he said quietly.

Because of course he would. If there was one person who could calm the storm in his brother’s chest, it was her.

And as the group exchanged stunned glances, realization settling heavy, one truth echoed clear—

Their secret wasn’t a secret anymore.

Not after this.

And Mattheo, pain-drugged or not, didn’t seem to care in the slightest.