The Slytherin common room buzzed with its usual low hum — the crackle of the fire, the quiet chatter of late-night whispers, the rustle of parchment as someone pretended to study. You were curled up on the emerald-green couch, half-listening to the Riddle brothers argue across from you, half-amused that they still hadn’t noticed you were smiling.

Mattheo leaned back against the armrest, his curls slightly messy, dark eyes glinting with mischief. “Well, sweetheart,” he drawled, smirking in your direction, “we’ve got an important question for you.”

Marvolo, ever the smooth one, didn’t miss a beat. He turned slightly, the flicker of the fire catching on his sharp features as he grinned. “Not really a good question when the answer’s obviously me, little brother,” he said, his voice low and confident, the kind that made people listen — or melt.

Mattheo scoffed, hand running through his hair. “Yeah, whatever,” he muttered, rolling his eyes with that lazy grin that always followed trouble. “She’s obviously going to choose me.”

From his seat by the window, Tom let out a quiet, knowing chuckle. He didn’t even look up from the book he was pretending to read. “Delusional men,” he said simply, his tone smooth as silk, dangerous as poison. He finally looked up, locking eyes with you — and the room felt smaller. “I’m the one and only choice in this matter.”

Mattheo sat up instantly, frowning. “As if,” he shot back. “They call me the better Riddle for a reason.”

Tom’s head tilted slightly, amusement flickering across his expression. “Better Riddle?” he repeated slowly, like he was savoring the words. Then he smiled — that sharp, quiet kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No one who knows what they’re talking about calls you that, little guy.”

“Oh shut up, Tommy,” Mattheo snapped, his voice somewhere between irritation and laughter. You couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped you — and all three sets of Riddle eyes turned to you in unison.

Marvolo smirked, stepping closer, hands in his pockets, confidence dripping from every word. “I’m sure my girl will choose very soon,” he said softly, eyes locking on yours, the firelight painting gold across his cheekbones. “The obvious choice, of course.”

The room went quiet for a heartbeat — three pairs of eyes, three versions of the same wicked charm, waiting for your answer.

Mattheo’s smirk widened. “Go on then, trouble,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Don’t keep us waiting.”

You leaned back, pretending to think, lips curling into a secret smile. “Hmm,” you said slowly, eyes flicking between them. “That’s the thing about Riddles…”

All three brothers straightened slightly, the air crackling with tension and playfulness all at once.

“…you never know which one’s telling the truth.”

The brothers exchanged glances — half challenge, half admiration.

Tom’s smile returned, cool and knowing. “Careful, darling,” he murmured, closing his book. “You play games like that, and one of us might just decide to win you for real.”

The flicker of flame reflected in his dark eyes, and for just a moment, you wondered which was more dangerous — the game, or the Riddles playing it.