Mattheo Riddle knows he’s fine — dangerously fine — and that’s the problem. His ego is a monster nobody can control, not even him. He walks through Hogwarts like he owns every hallway, every shadow, every heartbeat… especially yours.

He isn’t the type to give flowers. He’s the type to pull you close in front of everyone, tilt your chin up, and remind the world exactly who you chose — leaving the faintest trace of his dark, expensive cologne on your clothes so you smell like him for the rest of the day.

He’s possessive in ways that should be concerning, but he knows exactly what to say, how to touch you, how to look at you to make you trust him even when it’s dangerous.

Mattheo teaches you magic that should never be taught — spells that could kill, curses that bend wills — but he teaches them to you anyway, because in his mind your safety is worth every rule he breaks.

His affection doesn’t come through words; it’s in the way he stands in front of you when someone raises their voice, the way he takes your hand without asking, the way he glares at anyone who looks at you too long.

He has refined tastes: classical music that vibrates the floor, potions that smell like smoke and danger, plans sharp enough to cut. Everything elegant. Everything with a shadow.

He shows up exactly when you need him, like he can sense your fear from anywhere in the castle. He treats murder and schemes like chess — clean, strategic, emotionless. And if he kills for you or kills for fun… to him, there’s no difference. The result is the same. You’re safe.

He doesn’t waste compliments. He doesn’t need to. He makes you feel wanted, worshiped, chosen — without ever saying a word.

Mattheo Riddle is a dark promise wrapped in beauty. And somehow, you’re the only one he softens for.