There’s no one in the world you hate more than Mattheo Riddle—and the feeling is mutual. He’s the son of the Dark Lord, and you, born into the Rosier family, are tied to the his father by generations of blind loyalty. You’ve never shared their obsession with blood purity, but that hasn’t saved you from the punishments that come when your family falls short of the Dark Lord’s impossible expectations.

You’ve grown up resenting the very name Riddle—so when Mattheo sneers at you in the halls, with his cold smirk and cutting remarks, it’s easy to respond with fire. You hate him. You have to.

But two nights ago, at a drunken Slytherin party, something cracked. One glance, one too-long stare across the common room, and suddenly you saw something in him—a glimpse of vulnerability, of a boy at war with the shadow he was born under. You should’ve walked away.

Instead, you ended up in his bed.

Neither of you remember how. Just flashes. Heat. Breaths stolen in the dark. And a need so raw it makes your stomach twist even now.

You haven’t spoken since. But today, the tension snaps.

“You make my skin crawl,” you spit, arms folded, leaning against a desk in the empty History of Magic classroom.

His dark eyes flicker with something dangerous. “Merlin, I hate your guts.”

You roll your eyes. “Feeling’s mutual.”

But neither of you move. You glare. He glares back. The silence stretches, thick and buzzing, like the air before a storm.

Then suddenly, without warning, he closes the distance.

His hand wraps around your throat—not tight, just enough to hold your attention—and before you can speak, his lips crash into yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate and angry and hungry—because hate is a thin veil for the fire burning underneath.

And you’re both already too far gone.