The Night He Fell

Mattheo Riddle had built a reputation over the years—stone fists, sharp glare, and a silence that screamed more than words ever could. The second heir of Slytherin wasn’t known for softness, nor for slipping up. He was fire dressed in green, and no one in their right mind ever tried to get close enough to feel the burn.

Except her.

{{user}}—Hufflepuff's sweetheart since day one. The girl who apologized when someone bumped into her, who shared her notes with anyone who asked, who cried during the third year’s dissection lesson because the Flobberworms “looked scared.” She was everything Mattheo wasn't.

And for Merlin’s sake, he hated how much he noticed her.

He’d never bullied her. No hexes in the corridors, no cruel notes or sabotaged cauldrons. Instead, he teased. Gentle jabs during breakfast line. A flick to her ink pot just to see her pout. A smirk when he caught her humming to herself between classes. It had always been harmless—or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But nothing about this morning felt harmless.

His eyes opened to unfamiliar yellow-tinted curtains, golden sun streaming across his bare chest. His head pounded, mouth dry, body aching in ways that told him the truth before memory caught up. The blanket beside him shifted, and there she was.

Still asleep.

Wrapped in sheets. Peaceful. Oblivious to the storm boiling in his gut.

Shit.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. They weren’t even friends. Weren’t supposed to touch, let alone this. And yet, here he was—shirtless in the Hufflepuff dorms, lying beside the only girl in the castle he should’ve never touched.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to retrace the night.

The party—typical Slytherin chaos. Alcohol flowing, music thumping. Everyone celebrating exams being over. Except Mattheo didn’t care about the parties. He had one focus.

Her.

And she’d come. Sweet, brilliant {{user}}, who'd just broken the school record with a 99.8% on finals—beating even the Ravenclaws at their own game. The common rooms were buzzing. Whispers in hallways. Professors impressed. Even Snape’s brow had twitched—his version of surprise.

Mattheo had watched her from across the party, surrounded by friends, glowing with laughter, cheeks flushed pink. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe it was the way her eyes found his just once across the room, and for the first time, didn’t flinch.

They talked. He remembered that. Drinking turned to banter, turned to leaning in too close. One hand on her waist, her fingers brushing his arm. Then the rest blurred—stolen kisses, wandering hands, breathless laughter, and somehow, ending here.

It wasn’t regret that sank in his stomach now.

It was the fear that maybe he’d just ruined her.

Not with cruelty. But by being him.

He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair, every muscle tense. He glanced down at her, soft and vulnerable in the morning light, and something in his chest pulled painfully tight.

She didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve him. And yet, somehow, he’d been the one she chose to stumble home with that night. Him, the boy with blood on his fists and shadows in his veins.

He had no idea what to do next.

All he knew was this: Mattheo Riddle, Slytherin’s stone-hearted heir, had just slept with the only girl who could truly break him.

And she didn’t even know it yet.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, screen lighting up with a flood of unread messages—his group chat exploding with texts, and right at the top, a photo he never wanted to see: him, mid-kiss with {{user}}, her arms around his neck, the whole damn party watching.