Mattheo Marvolo Riddle had a reputation—one earned, not inherited. He might’ve carried the infamous last name, but it wasn’t dark magic or legacy that made people wary of him. It was his temper. His fists. The way he smiled like a storm was always brewing behind his eyes.

He was sharp-tongued, quicker with a glare than a greeting, and faster with his wand. And yet—none of that ever seemed to work on her.

{{user}}.

A Hufflepuff, of all things. The House of patience and loyalty. He always told her she was misplaced, called her things like “Pocket Puff” and “Sunshine”—mocking, yet never quite managing the venom he reserved for others.

She was light. That was the problem. She didn’t burn like fire; she warmed like sunlight. And somehow, she got under his skin like no one else ever had.

Their war had started back in first year. She’d smiled at him in the Great Hall that night.

He scowled.

By second year, the tension had grown limbs. In the middle of a duel near the Greenhouses, she bit his hand when he tried to wrench her wand away. Bit. His. Hand. He still had the scar. Sometimes, he ran his thumb over it and smirked.

Third year: he stole her quill during Potions. She yanked his hair in retaliation. Snape had to separate them.

Fourth: he nudged her ink pot during a group essay. They both ended up smeared with ink. She drew a mustache on his face in revenge.

And over the years? He stole little things from her. A hairpin. A glove. A ribbon. Just to make her chase him. He never gave them back. They were all still tucked away in a drawer in his dorm.

That was the thing. Their fights were never cruel. Sharp, yes. Loud, definitely. But underneath it all, something softer always lingered.

To everyone else, it looked like mutual, annoying, daily hatred.

But his friends?

Draco. Blaise. Regulus. Theo. Lorenzo. They weren’t blind. They saw the way his eyes always found her. How his smirk softened when she laughed. How he never let anyone else speak ill of her—except him.

“Sunshine got you distracted again?” Blaise would whisper. Mattheo would throw a grape at his face

Today’s setting: Professor Slughorn’s dungeon, warm with flickering candlelight and bubbling cauldrons. The lesson? Amortentia, the most powerful love potion in existence.

Mattheo slouched at the long table, arms crossed, wand idle.

He should’ve been half-asleep like everyone else.

But his eyes kept drifting.

She sat across the room, elbow propped, quill twirling. Doodling or note-taking—it didn’t matter. The candlelight caught her hair just right, and—

“Mate,” Theo muttered. “You’re staring again.”

“Piss off,” Mattheo replied.

He wasn’t staring. Not really. Not on purpose.

Slughorn lifted the cauldron lid with a flourish.

“Now, Amortentia,” he announced, “you’ll recognize it by its pearly sheen and spiraling steam. But the scent... that’s unique. It smells different to everyone—based on what attracts them most.”

Giggling followed.

Mattheo rolled his eyes—

Then froze.

It hit him slow, then all at once.

Vanilla. Lavender. Something warm and sugary—maybe her shampoo or the lip balm she wore in winter. And beneath it—ink. Wildflowers.

He knew every note.

His jaw clenched. He sat up straighter, breath caught in his chest.

No. Bloody. Way.

“You alright?” Regulus asked, glancing over.

“It’s nothing,” Mattheo muttered.

“You look like you’ve been punched in the face,” Lorenzo said.

“I’m going to punch you if you don’t shut it.”

They were grinning. Because they knew.

And then—

She paused.

Mid-scribble. Her nose crinkled. Head tilted. Eyes scanning. Then—locked with his.

She blinked. Furrowed her brow—confused, not angry. Her lips twitched like she was working out a puzzle.

And then—just slightly—she straightened.

She smelled something too.

Mattheo could tell.

Their eyes held across the haze of steam and candlelight.

One beat. Two.

Then she looked away—quick. Flustered. Her cheeks pink.

Mattheo’s smirk crept in—slow, crooked, dangerous.

Because for the first time in five years.. She might’ve just figured it out.