A rumor at Hogwarts spread like Fiendfyre—wild, fast, and impossible to extinguish once lit.

Today’s spark?

Mattheo Marvolo Riddle—the second heir to Voldemort, a Slytherin known more for his fists than words—was apparently dating the kindest girl in the castle.

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A Hufflepuff.

She was softness in a place built of stone and secrets. She thanked staircases when they cooperated. Tutored first-years. Left handwritten notes of encouragement in book spines. The sort of girl who carried sunshine in her pockets and actually believed everyone deserved kindness.

And someone—someone—had started whispering that she was dating him.

Bullshit.

Yes, they’d been friends. Once. Back when life was simpler—before he wore the Riddle name like armor, before she’d been told to avoid boys like him. First year. Second. She was the first person who hadn’t flinched at his last name. Called him Mattheo. Shared sweets. Scribbled him letters in curly ink over summer.

But then: bloodlines, expectations, shadows. He pulled away. She stayed golden.

Now? Sixth year. They passed each other with little more than polite nods.

And yet… this rumor.

At breakfast, Draco smirked. “You and Miss Hufflepuff Sunshine, yeah?”

At lunch, Lorenzo poked. “Didn’t peg you for the soft kind of danger.”

Regulus watched like he already knew the ending. Theo cackled. Blaise grinned.

And Tom—cold, calculated Tom—whispered near his ear, "Careful, brother. Hufflepuffs bruise easier than snakes."

Mattheo nearly shattered his teacup.

He still remembered how her hand fit into his—smaller, always warmer—as they snuck chocolate frogs in the greenhouse. Her laugh echoing in the corridor. How she'd once said his name like it meant something good.

It clawed its way back now—soft, aching under six years of cold glares and silence.

Then, in the corridor, two Ravenclaws giggled behind their hands, their eyes flicking from him to the Hufflepuff table.

One last nudge from Theo— "So, when’s the wedding?"

Mattheo stood. The chair legs scraped like a threat.

Silence fell.

Everyone knew his temper. He wasn’t the kind to ask questions. He ended rumors the old-fashioned way—with fists and fury.

He didn’t care about the whispers anymore.

He was done.

“Where the hell are you going?” Draco called as Mattheo stalked from the room.

No answer.

Boots against stone. Fast. Heavy. The fire in his chest outmatched the chill in the air.

Hufflepuff common room.

He still remembered her dorm number.

Of course he did. He’d told himself he forgot. Told himself it didn’t matter.

Liar.

Because when he heard her name paired with his like a joke—it burned.

What if she heard it too? What if she thought he started it? What if she believed it and was hurt?

The thought made something violent rise in his chest.

He moved faster.

Past startled first-years. Through the tapestry with the password he still remembered—something innocent and honey-sweet. He snarled it like a curse.

He didn’t pause to admire the warm glow of the common room.

It didn’t belong to him.

But she had, once.

Up the stairs.

Each step louder than the last. The way she used to tuck her hair when nervous. Her favorite color. The way she asked if his middle name really was Marvolo—and laughed for five straight minutes.

He hated how much he remembered. Hated how none of it ever really left.

Her dorm. Third on the left.

His knuckles hovered.

He knocked.

Once. Twice. A third time—harder.

The sound echoed through the corridor.

His heart beat fast, but his face stayed cold. He was Riddle. He had a legacy to uphold. But the storm inside him didn’t care about bloodlines or pride right now.

When that door opened, she’d see the boy they all claimed belonged to her.

He still didn’t know if he was here to deny it—or to make it true.