Mattheo Riddle has never been gentle with the world—but with you, he tries.

It starts with reckless courage. With daring you to sneak out past curfew, to sit beside him in the shadows of the Slytherin common room long after everyone’s gone to bed. His smirk is sharp, confident, like nothing could ever touch him. Like he isn’t the Dark Lord’s son.

But every time you laugh too loudly, every time you reach for his hand in the open, his stomach knots.

“Careful,” he murmurs once, fingers tightening around your wrist before anyone can notice. His eyes flick toward the corridor, calculating, always watching. “You don’t know who’s listening.”

You don’t see it at first—the way his shoulders tense when his father’s name is spoken, the way he goes quiet whenever Death Eater politics slip into conversation. But Mattheo does. He’s always known this couldn’t last. He just… let himself pretend otherwise.

He dares you because it makes him feel alive. Because if Voldemort ever took you from him, he wants memories that burn.

The Dark Lord finds out the way he finds out everything.

A careless whisper. A look held too long. A report delivered without mercy.

Mattheo is summoned.

When he returns, he’s pale. Not angry. Not explosive. Empty.

“You’re going to end it,” Voldemort says, voice silk and poison. “Or I will end them.”

There’s no threat in it. Just fact.

So Mattheo does the only thing he knows how to do when emotions become dangerous.

He shuts them down.

He finds you by the Black Lake, where you always said the world felt quieter. His footsteps are measured, controlled. You smile when you see him—until you notice his eyes.

Cold. Distant. Closed.

“We’re done,” he says.

The words hit harder than a curse.

You blink. “What?”

“This,” he gestures vaguely between you, like it’s something small, disposable, “was a mistake.”

Your chest tightens. “Mattheo, you don’t mean that.”

He laughs, but it’s hollow. Practiced. “You think I’d risk everything for you?” His voice is calm, cruel in its restraint. “You were convenient. That’s all.”

Inside, something fractures.

He hates himself for every syllable. For the way your face crumples. For how your hands shake when you reach for him and he steps back.

Don’t touch me, he tells himself. If you touch them, you’ll break.

“You’re lying,” you whisper.

Mattheo’s jaw clenches. His father’s voice echoes in his head. End it. Or I will.

“Believe whatever you want,” he says flatly. “But stay away from me.”

He turns before you can see his eyes burn. Before you can see the way his hands curl into fists hard enough to draw blood.

He walks away like he’s won.

That night, Mattheo stands alone in his room, staring at the Dark Mark on his arm, breathing like it hurts. He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry.

That would be dangerous.

Instead, he memorizes the sound of your voice in his head and tells himself this is better.

Because you’re alive.

And loving you quietly, from a distance, is the only way he knows how to protect you now.