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❝ʜᴏɢᴡᴀʀᴛs ʟɪʙʀᴀʀʏ, ʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴀғᴛᴇʀɴᴏᴏɴ.❞

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The golden light of late afternoon spilled through the tall, stained-glass windows of the Hogwarts library, casting colored shadows across the endless rows of ancient tomes. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams of sunlight, and the quiet crackle of pages turning was the only sound—save for the occasional whisper from a tucked-away table.

You were alone in the Magical Creatures section, your fingers trailing the worn spines of a shelf labeled “Draconology: The Fireborn and the Forgotten.” The upcoming exam on dragon classifications had most of your classmates panicking, but you—{{user}} Lestrange—worked better alone.

Well, mostly alone.

You spotted the book you needed—“Ages of Flame: An Evolution of European Dragons”—on the topmost shelf, wedged between two crumbling volumes. You frowned. It was just out of reach. Rising onto your toes, you stretched a little further, your fingertips barely brushing the leather cover. You huffed under your breath and tried again, stubborn.

And then—

A shadow fell across you.

A hand reached up effortlessly past your shoulder, plucking the book from the shelf in one smooth movement.

“Looking for this?” came a low, velvety voice.

You turned slightly, already knowing who it was before your eyes met his.

Mattheo Riddle. He was the son of the Dark Lord himself, a name spoken with both awe and fear—but somehow, Mattheo wore it like a crown. Tall, dark-haired, with eyes that always seemed to know more than he let on. Girls adored him. Professors tolerated him. And you… you weren’t sure where you stood.

He held the book out to you, cocking his head with a small, knowing smirk curling his lips.

“Here you go, pretty girl.”

The nickname was teasing, but not mocking. Smooth and deliberate, like everything he did. He didn’t look away as you took the book from his hand—your fingers brushing his just for a second, warm and electric.