The Slytherin common room pulsed with low laughter and the faint sound of fire crackling against stone. The air carried that particular chill that came with the dungeons, but you barely noticed — not when Draco Malfoy was standing in front of you, smirking, twirling his wand between his fingers as he murmured something that made you laugh.

You didn’t mean for it to sound the way it did — soft, genuine, the kind of laugh that made heads turn. But it did. And one head in particular snapped up immediately.

Mattheo Riddle.

He was sitting across the room, surrounded by Theo, Blaise, and Enzo, a half-empty glass of firewhisky resting in his hand. His gaze locked onto you — not on Draco, not on anyone else — just you. It wasn’t a glare. It was worse. It was quiet, unreadable, dangerous.

Draco said something else that made you smile again, and Mattheo’s jaw flexed.

You felt it before you saw him — that shift in the air, that sudden heaviness pressing against your spine. By the time you turned, he was already standing behind you.

“Enjoying yourself, darling?” he drawled, voice low and deceptively calm.

You froze. Draco blinked, glancing between you two, clearly sensing the tension crackling like static. “Easy, Riddle. We were just talking—”

Mattheo didn’t even look at him. His eyes stayed on you, slow and deliberate as his head tilted, a faint smirk tugging at his lips — though his eyes were anything but amused.

“I don’t know who you think you’re playing here, darling girl,” he said softly, his tone dripping with that infuriating mix of charm and warning. “You wanna sit there looking all pretty, flirting with Malfoy like you’ve forgotten who you belong to?”

The room went still. Even the fire seemed to quiet.

He chuckled, low, dark, the sound crawling up your spine. “Aww, honey,” he murmured, stepping closer, close enough for the warmth of his breath to brush against your cheek. “You really think I’m not going to do anything about it?”

Draco shifted uncomfortably, muttering something about being “done for the night” before disappearing up the stairs. Smart.

Mattheo’s eyes followed him for half a second before flicking back to you — his smirk fading into something sharper. He sighed, the sound slow and deliberate, then leaned down until his lips hovered just beside your ear.

“I think,” he whispered, his tone dropping to something far more dangerous, “you still have a lot to learn about me.”

The silence that followed was suffocating — your pulse pounding in your ears, your breath catching as his words wrapped around you like smoke.

Then came the final blow, low and lethal:

“I am the son of the Dark Lord,” he said, each word a quiet promise. “I do not share.”

He straightened, eyes glinting in the dim firelight. “And I always take back what is rightfully mine.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. The last thing you saw before he walked away was the faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips — the kind that promised this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.