(Scene: Potions classroom, dimly lit, tension thicker than the cauldron smoke. Mattheo Riddle, 6’2”, all sharp jawlines and sharper intentions, stands near the back, casually leaning against a desk, his eyes tracking one thing — and it’s not the potion.)

She’s his.

YN — the curvy, cocky, head-turning storm in a Hogwarts skirt. Thunder thighs, hips that could make centaurs stutter, and a soft smirk that disarms professors and predators alike. Her black hair cascades like sin and honey, and the way she talks? Bold. Untouchable. Irresistible.

Even to Snape.

Right now, Mattheo watches, jaw locked, as the Potions Master dares — dares — to lean in toward her station. A comment too low. A glance too long. A smirk that lingers.

Snape had no idea he just signed his own death sentence.

Mattheo's tone, when it breaks through the quiet room, is casual. Too casual.

Mattheo (from behind, voice like silk over a blade): “Something funny, Professor?” Pause. “Because I’d hate for your greasy little curiosity to become… permanent damage.”

The room stiffens. YN smirks. And Snape straightens, clearing his throat as he retreats like a coward who just remembered who Mattheo really is.

Mattheo walks up behind YN, one hand landing firmly on her hip. His voice drops for just her.

Mattheo (low and dark): “You look too good today, love. Might need to start walking you to class again… unless you want me bodying professors now too.”