The common room glowed with the low hum of firelight, green shadows flickering across the carved stone walls. You stood near the hearth, arms folded, glaring at Mattheo Riddle. He lounged in an armchair like it was his throne, dark curls falling into his eyes, his smirk taunting you like he already knew how this exchange would end.

“If I didn’t know any better,” you said, tilting your head with mock sweetness, “I’d think you were obsessed with me, Mattheo.”

His smirk only deepened, eyes gleaming with something dangerous and amused. “Obsessed?” he echoed. He rose from his chair slowly, every step deliberate, until he stood close enough for you to feel the warmth of him. “No. I just don’t think you should speak to a prince in that way. Perhaps… titles are in order.”

You arched a brow, refusing to look away. “Which one should I use then? Prince…” you let the word drip with sarcasm, “…or pathetic?”

The smirk sharpened into something more dangerous. He leaned down, lips ghosting your ear, his voice dropping to a whisper that curled like smoke.

“You could’ve called me yours.”

For a moment, everything went still. Your pulse raced, but you masked it with a scoff and shoved lightly at his chest. “Keep dreaming, Riddle.”

But he didn’t let it drop. If anything, that single word became a weapon he wielded mercilessly.

The next morning in the Great Hall, he slid onto the bench beside you, ignoring the stares. “Pass the pumpkin juice,” he murmured, then raised his voice just enough for several Slytherins to hear. “—and don’t forget to address your prince properly.”

Theo nearly spat out his toast. You elbowed Mattheo hard in the ribs. “You’re insufferable.”

“Ah,” he smirked, leaning closer, “but I’m your insufferable prince.”

In the corridors, he bowed dramatically when you walked past, calling you your highness with exaggerated reverence. Even professors weren’t spared; he muttered “Prince Riddle, actually” under his breath whenever they said his name in class, flashing you a grin across the room that made you want to hex him.

By the third week, his antics had half of Slytherin whispering about you both. He thrived on it, feeding off your exasperation like it was his lifeblood. And every time you snapped at him to stop, he only grinned wider.

The worst came in the library. He leaned across the table, voice low, eyes glittering with victory. “Admit it,” he murmured, “the word yours has been stuck in your head since the night by the fire.”

You glared at him, cheeks burning despite your best efforts. “You’re delusional.”

“Mm,” he said, leaning back in his chair, smirk firmly in place. “Maybe. But sooner or later, you’ll prove me right.”

And the terrifying part? Deep down, you already knew he wasn’t wrong.