Mattheo Marvolo Riddle.
The name itself sounded like a warning. A curse. A promise.
He wasn’t the boy Hogwarts girls wrote poems about. He wasn’t in weekend gossip, or pictured near the Black Lake with a soft grin and a stolen kiss.
He was the boy with blood on his knuckles and shadows in his eyes.
The one who used fists more than words.
The second heir of Voldemort — and not just in name. He wore that legacy like a second skin: cold, patient, deadly. If Tom Riddle was the serpent, clever and quiet, then Mattheo was the venom — the pain that came after the bite.
Students didn’t just avoid him. They feared him. Eyes lowered, footsteps changed. Silence followed him like a second shadow.
You didn’t look too long. You didn’t speak his name. You didn’t call to a Riddle — not unless you had a death wish.
And yet, he wasn’t alone.
He moved with a circle just as dangerous: Draco Malfoy. Blaise Zabini. Lorenzo Berkshire. Regulus Black. Theodore Nott. And above them all — Tom Riddle, older brother and living legend.
Everyone assumed Mattheo’s type would be someone fierce. Someone who could meet him fire for fire.
But no one ever expected her.
{{user}}. A Hufflepuff.
Soft. Sweet. Naive in a way Hogwarts had long since forgotten.
She thanked portraits. Left snacks for first-years. Cried over red ink and smiled at blooming sunflowers. She wore pastel jumpers and little glittering clips in her hair — until one day, she didn’t.
Mattheo noticed.
He always had.
Since first year, he watched from the shadows. Never spoke. Never stared too long. But always kept her in his periphery, like he could guard her with just his gaze.
But she wasn’t his.
She was with a Gryffindor — loud, golden, perfect on the outside.
But behind the scenes?
He saw the signs.
How her bright clothes faded to dull tones. Her sleeves grew longer. The clips disappeared. How bruises — disguised as hickeys — crept higher, more violent. How her laugh quieted. Her shoulders hunched. Her eyes darted when he raised his voice. How she flinched. How she shrunk.
Mattheo had lived in darkness long enough to recognize when someone else was being consumed by it.
She was breaking.
But what could he do? He wasn’t the boy girls ran to for protection. He was the one they were warned about.
She wasn’t his.
Until tonight.
It was late — the kind of late where the castle felt like it was holding its breath. Moonlight spilled across the corridor like milk on stone. The portraits slept.
Mattheo and his boys were wandering as usual, talking low, boots thudding, laughter edged with menace.
Then they turned a corner.
And everything stopped.
He walked straight into someone — small, soft, shaking.
Her.
Her eyes widened, panicked. She tugged at her jumper, trying to hide the bruise under her collarbone — but it was too late.
He saw it.
Too red. Too angry. Not made from love — made from control.
His hands curled into fists.
Then her eyes met his — glassy, pleading — and something shifted.
And then— she stepped forward.
Into his arms.
She hugged him. Tight. Like she had nothing else to hold on to.
He froze.
Not because he didn’t want her there — but because she had chosen him.
Behind him, his friends stopped. Watched. Because no one — no one — touched Mattheo Riddle without permission.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t push her away.
He held her back.
Arms wrapping around her — protective, certain. Like she belonged there.
And then they heard it.
Footsteps. A voice.
Her boyfriend.
“I didn’t mean it,” he called, voice syrup-slick and fake. “Just a misunderstanding, babe, let’s talk—please—”
Then he rounded the corner—
And stopped.
There she was.
In Mattheo Riddle’s arms.
He didn’t even try to finish his sentence.
Because now she wasn’t his girlfriend.
Not anymore.
Mattheo looked up. Their eyes locked.
Nothing was said. But everything was clear.
This wasn’t a misunderstanding.
And Mattheo Riddle?
He didn’t give back what was his.