this year’s quidditch season had been more brutal than your previous years at hogwarts, as you gradually moved up the ranks in your house’s team. you had always had a knack for the sport, with many students and teachers alike — especially the incorrigible professor slughorn — wondering if you’d make it professionally.

but at each of your games, and training sessions, you would always notice a familiar face in the crowd. every time, without fail, mattheo riddle would watch you in utter fascination. it had become a running joke with your fellow team mates; that the infamous slytherin playboy was too scared to ask you out properly.

you’d shrugged the jokes off, but mattheo was relentless. once, when you had broken your prized broom during a game, you had discovered a brand new gleaming firebolt in your dorm the very next day. all of hogwarts knew how deep the dark lord’s son’s pockets went, anyway.

one evening, after a particularly gruelling practice on the pitch, you had stumbled tiredly into the locker room. and standing there, leant over your half-open sports bag, was mattheo riddle. the uninvited slytherin froze when you walked in, his big brown eyes wide and tall lanky figure stiff.

“fuck!” he cursed loudly, pulling slinky black fabric from his nose quickly.

you realised that he’d been sniffing a pair of your sweaty underwear mere moments ago, an extremely guilty look on his face. mattheo’s ears and cheeks turn pink all of a sudden, an usual look for the usually coldly composed boy as he blusters nervously. “i . . . uh . . . {{user}}, i . . . ‘m not doing anything bad, i swear . . .”