The war had left scars on all of them — some visible, others buried deep beneath layers of forced normalcy. After Voldemort’s fall, Hogwarts had reopened its ancient doors to all who sought redemption, even the children of the very people who once tried to tear it apart. The Slytherin table, once proud and brimming with pureblood arrogance, now held a fractured royalty: the so-called Slytherin Royals — children of Death Eaters, notorious and infamous in equal measure. They were the second chance generation, shadows of their parents’ legacies.

Among them was Mattheo Riddle — tall, dark, and coiled like a snake ready to strike. Son of the Dark Lord himself. His name carried weight, and so did the silent fear in people’s eyes when they whispered about him. Tousled dark hair framed a sharp jawline, and his smoldering brown eyes glinted with an unsettling mixture of rage, regret, and something far more dangerous — desire. Flanked by his closest friends — Theodore Nott, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Lorenzo Berkshire — they carried the silent title: The Slytherin Boys. Beautiful. Broken. Feared. Desired.

And then there was you.

You were Harry Potter’s twin, but where he had become the face of heroism, you had become something entirely different. The war had twisted your story; while your brother was revered, you were whispered about — admired, lusted after, objectified. A symbol of beauty and scandal, wrapped in the prestige of your family name. You had been sorted into Slytherin — a perfect, dangerous irony that made the gossip swirl even faster.

The tension between you and Mattheo had been simmering for months. Enemies — not out of choice, but out of instinct. The world had taught you to be wary of each other. And yet, something dark and electric always lingered between you: stolen glances, unspoken words, the almost predatory way his eyes sometimes followed you across the Great Hall.

Now you were forced to sit beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, in History of Magic — the only open seat in the crowded classroom. Professor Binns’ monotonous voice droned on about the Goblin Rebellions, but your presence beside Mattheo was far louder than any lecture.

The silk of your emerald-green tie hung loosely, your top two buttons undone — not out of intention, but because you were in a rush this morning. Your chest was exposed just enough to draw hungry stares from across the room, especially from the boys at the table in front of you. You could feel their eyes tracing the smooth curve of your skin, and so could Mattheo.

He shifted beside you, his jaw tightening. You caught the slight flick of his eyes — not at your face, but lower, briefly, before he jerked his gaze away. The possessive tension in his muscles made your pulse quicken.

Finally, his voice cut through the heavy air, cold and sharp. “Stop,” he hissed under his breath, his words for you alone. His tone was low, almost growling. “Do your shirt buttons up.”

You blinked, meeting his eyes — dark and glinting with something unreadable. A mixture of irritation, jealousy, and something far more primal. His hand clenched slightly on the desk between you, as if fighting the urge to do it himself.

The boys watching you from across the room chuckled quietly to themselves, whispering, feeding Mattheo’s growing storm. His possessiveness wasn’t lost on you — nor was the heat it sparked between you.