mattheo riddle was the reason slytherin had lost their first quidditch match, and he knew it.

as slytherin's seeker, his sole job was to catch the golden snitch, and everyone on the team counted on him to do that, and he was damn good at it too. mattheo had practically felt the snitch between his fingers until he was knocked off his broom by fucking oliver wood and slammed onto the rough dirt of the pitch, missing it by a hair. what an embarrassment.

he was furious at himself. infact, he'd beaten himself up about it — he spent the whole night racing around the quidditch pitch, perfecting his stamina and broom skills. if there was one thing he cared about the most, it was his pride, and his pride would refuse to let him cost his house another game.

it was well past midnight when he swaggered into the empty locker rooms, his legs sore from the intense workout and sweat beaded into his inky curls and on his bare torso. luckily, it was early in the quidditch season, and was still warm enough that mattheo had stripped his sweat-soaked jersey off at the pitch, but unluckily, he had forgotten his shirt on the pitch. he smirked at himself, imagining the look on some second year's face when they found his smelly jersey on the dirt.

mattheo was slipping on his grey sweatpants when the door to the locker room slammed open, and a few pairs of hands shoved you inside. you swaggered backwards, clearly intoxicated, and reached for the door as it closed. he smirked as he watched your weak attempt to push the door open.

"it's locked," he suggested, tying the loose string on his pants and running a hand through his damp hair. mattheo met your gaze, and he was well aware of his bare torso. "i didn't peg you as the type to watch me change,"