Mattheo Riddle didn’t believe in love. He believed in ownership. In power. In control. People were pieces to him — easy to move, easier to discard.

You met him look for look, smirk for smirk. Where others bowed, you stood taller. Where others begged, you laughed. It drove him mad in a way he didn’t know how to survive.

And from that moment, Mattheo was ruined.

He told himself you were just another game, something shiny to claim. He watched you from the shadows of Hogwarts’ stone corridors, calculating, pulling you closer with sharp words and sharper glances. His touch would linger too long. His voice would drop when he said your name.

He told himself he could stop whenever he wanted. But every time he pulled away, he ended up back at your side—closer, rougher, more desperate. You were the only thing he couldn’t control without losing control himself.

Mattheo grew jealous of anyone who even made you laugh. He didn’t trust the way other boys looked at you, didn’t trust the way you smiled back.

He hated how much he needed you.

There were nights he snapped, cold and cruel, testing how far he could push you before you cracked. But you didn’t. You stayed. And every time you did, every time you looked at him like he wasn’t a monster, another piece of his armor shattered.

You weren’t afraid of him. You understood him. And that terrified him more than anything.

One night, after curfew, you found him pacing alone by the Black Lake, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, frustration written across his face. You didn’t say anything — just stood there, waiting.

Finally, he turned, eyes dark and wild.

“You’re ruining me,” he said, voice low and ragged. “And you don’t even care.”