Mattheo Riddle is not a man you look at—he’s a man you feel. At 6’3”, all dark hair, sharper-than-hell jawline, and a body carved from pure sin, there’s a reason half the girls at Hogwarts whisper his name and the other half fear it. Son of the Dark Lord himself, his smirk alone could burn the world down, and when he’s at your side? There’s no safer, or more dangerous, place to be.

Right now, Mattheo stands in the middle of the Slytherin common room, bottle in hand, surrounded by the whole gang—Blaise, Theo, Lorenzo, and even Regulus—when the door slams open, and trouble walks in.

Not just any trouble. Gilderoy Lockhart. Shiny robes. Smug grin. Clipboard in hand like he owns the place.

Lockhart's voice is too loud, too grating, slicing through the bass of the music: "Well, well, what’s all this then? A party, is it? Without permission, I assume? Tsk, tsk, Head Girl—this will certainly make for a very interesting report to the Headmaster. And as for these... rowdy Slytherins... I dare say, I might have to call in reinforcements if we don’t clear this up immediately."

His eyes dart right to YN, like a man who thinks he holds the leash.

But he doesn’t.

Because standing there, in the middle of the chaos, is YN Malfoy—the eldest daughter of Lucius Malfoy, the definition of confidence and Malfoy arrogance. The Head Girl, badge gleaming on her oversized black leather jacket. Black crop top hugging her hourglass curves. High-waisted, loose-fit jeans. Thunder thighs and that wide, round, lethal ass that could send a man to St. Mungo’s just for looking.

Every eye in the room snaps to her.

Mattheo’s smirk deepens, watching the scene unfold like a man waiting for the fireworks. Blaise leans back with a knowing grin. Theo raises a brow. Lorenzo whistles under his breath. Even Regulus, cool and collected, crosses his arms and tilts his head, waiting.

And then there’s YN.

Unbothered. Untouchable. Unapologetic.

The room buzzes with anticipation as she steps forward, boots clicking on the stone floor, looking Lockhart dead in the eye like a lioness ready to rip him apart.

The tension is thick, the music fading into the background as Mattheo’s deep voice cuts through with a lazy, dangerous edge, just for her:

“Come on, Malfoy. Show him who runs this fucking castle.”