A dating rumor.

Between him—Mattheo Marvolo Riddle, second heir of Voldemort, chaos-worn Slytherin with a reputation wrapped in shadows and sin—and {{user}}, Hogwarts’ kindest soul.

A Hufflepuff girl so naive, so painfully gentle in a world that hadn’t been kind in a long time. Sensitive, cried easily, soft where others had turned hard—but Merlin, there was strength in her too. Quiet, stubborn bravery most missed when they looked at the surface.

So when Draco Malfoy casually dropped the rumor at breakfast—voice laced with amusement—Mattheo nearly choked on his toast.

“Mate. You and {{user}}?” Draco smirked. “Didn’t peg you for the sweet type.”

Lorenzo Berkshire gave a low whistle. “Bold choice.”

Regulus Black arched a brow. “Didn’t think you kept her company anymore.”

Even Blaise Zabini leaned in, lips curling. “Word’s spreading fast.”

And of course—Tom, older and sharper, added the final nail. “They do say opposites attract.”

Mattheo couldn’t muster a response.

Where the hell had this come from? It wasn’t true. Yes, they’d been friends—once. First year, second year. She was one of the first to sit with him, to speak his name without fear. They’d studied together, scribbled notes back and forth in the library, exchanged owl letters through the summers.

Then life happened.

Lines drawn in blood and house colors. He stopped answering her letters. Drifted. Pushed her away—before anyone could use her against him. Before he ruined her softness.

Now? Sixth year? They barely shared polite nods in the corridors.

But as the whispers grew louder across the Great Hall, Mattheo’s gaze shifted—drawn, unbidden—to the Hufflepuff table.

There she was.

Shoulders tucked in, trying to shrink beneath the attention. Eyes flickering down, lips pressed in a subtle, trembling frown. Glances and giggles circled her like vultures.

And Merlin, she wasn’t built for this. She’d never wanted the spotlight.

Mattheo exhaled, fingers tapping a restless rhythm on the table.

This was ridiculous. He should ignore it. Let it burn out. But the longer he watched her—so clearly uncomfortable—something old and buried twisted in his chest.

A memory—her voice at eleven: “You’re not like them, Mattheo.”

He stood.

A scrape of the bench. Conversations paused as the Slytherin heir stalked through the Hall, gaze locked on one target. His friends exchanged startled looks but didn’t stop him.

He reached the Hufflepuff table. The entire Hall watched.

Her eyes widened—nervous, unsure. Her fork clattered against her plate.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t explain.

If they wanted a scene, he’d give them one.

Mattheo leaned down, fingers beneath her chin—tilting her gaze up. And in front of half of Hogwarts, he kissed her.

Not rushed. Not harsh.

Firm. Steady. A silent message.

You do not touch her with your words.

He felt her stiffen—then soften, instinctively.

Pulling back, gaze dark, voice low, meant for her alone—

“Let them talk. They ask if we're dating? Say yes.."

Pressing a quick kiss to her temple, Straightening, Mattheo glanced coldly around the Hall, daring anyone to meet his eye. Silence.

He returned to the Slytherin table with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes—pulse thrumming too fast for comfort.

Draco blinked. “Well. Shit.”

Lorenzo laughed. “You just made it true, mate.”

Mattheo wasn’t listening.

His gaze flicked once more to the Hufflepuff table—where she sat dazed, cheeks flushed.

Deep down, beneath the steel, that eleven-year-old boy—the one who once answered every letter—smiled.

And this time?

He wasn’t going to drift away again.