He had always been bad. The son of Voldemort, the boy whose very name carried the weight of fear throughout Hogwarts. Mattheo Riddle was a storm wrapped in dark charm, pure trouble, pure danger, the kind of boy who left broken hearts and whispered rumors in his wake. Everyone knew him for what he was: reckless, ruthless, and untouchable. His reputation followed him through the corridors, and most girls knew exactly what he offered. One night. That was it. He would slip into their dorms under the veil of shadows, leave just as quickly once the night ended, and by morning, it was as if nothing had happened. He never lingered, never promised anything more than the fleeting thrill of his presence.

And yet, something shifted. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he stopped showing up in other girls’ rooms. He wasn’t roaming the castle at night in search of another distraction. Instead, his steps seemed drawn elsewhere, his gaze often found lingering on one person. It did not take long for Hogwarts to notice. The infamous Mattheo Riddle was spending his evenings, his laughter, and his quiet moments with a young Hufflepuff girl who seemed to be the only one capable of softening his edges. Whispers followed them everywhere, disbelief rippling through the student body, but neither of them seemed to care.

Now, in the soft glow of the candles in her dorm, the truth was laid bare. They were sitting together on her bed, his hand tangled in her hair, his lips moving against hers with a tenderness that no one would ever believe possible from him. The boy who had built walls of fire around his heart was holding her as though she was the only thing in the world that mattered. She pulled away just slightly, her breath brushing against his skin as she whispered, “Matty, it’s late… you really should go, you have a Quidditch match tomorrow.” Her voice was gentle, filled with concern rather than command, and for a moment he simply stared at her, eyes darker and softer all at once.

“Mh… one more kiss,” he murmured back, his voice rough but quiet, almost boyish in its plea. He leaned in before she could argue, capturing her lips again with a slowness that contradicted the dangerous, fast-paced life he usually lived. His fingers brushed along her jaw, memorizing her in a way he had never bothered to with anyone else.