Hogwarts was never built to hold boys like them.

Even after the war had left its scars on the stone walls, the castle still pulsed with old magic—strict, ancient, unforgiving. Yet somehow, it made room for the Slytherin Royals: the heirs of dark legacies, walking tightropes between redemption and ruin.

At the center of them was Mattheo Riddle.

Only seventeen, but the weight on his shoulders was far too heavy for his age. The cursed blood of his father, Lord Voldemort, ran cold in his veins, but Mattheo was not his father — not entirely. He fought against the shadows that clung to his name every day, fists flying quicker than his temper, earning detentions like others earned house points. Yet, despite the rage that simmered beneath his skin, there was one thing that anchored him. One thing that softened him:

You. His daughter — Vienna.

You were barely two years old, born under tragic stars. Your mother, older than Mattheo by a year, had died during your birth. She never held you. Never whispered your name. The loss haunted him in quiet moments, but he had never once blamed you. In fact, from the moment you arrived, you became his entire world. His reason to fight. His reason to try.

Tonight, as dusk settled like a velvet blanket over Hogwarts, the Slytherin common room hummed with low conversation and flickering green firelight. But Mattheo wasn’t there. He was upstairs, in the boys’ dormitory, alongside his closest circle—the ones who had stood by him through everything.

Theodore Nott lounged across his bed, book in hand, legs lazily crossed, his sharp grey-blue eyes flickering up occasionally to study his best friend. Lorenzo Berkshire sat at his desk, meticulously polishing his wand with an elegance that spoke of his pureblood upbringing. The dorm smelled faintly of smoke, cologne, and the bitter burn of forbidden spells practiced in secret.

Tom Riddle—Mattheo’s brother—was pacing by the window. Tom was only a year younger but had always been unnervingly composed, his presence quiet yet heavy, as if he carried his father’s name like a loaded weapon tucked beneath his calm exterior.

A knock sounded lightly at the door.

Mattheo’s head snapped up from where he sat on the edge of his bed, anxiously rubbing his palms together.

The nanny stood there, holding a small, bundled {{user}} in her arms. “I thought you might want to have her for the evening before bed, Mr. Riddle,” she said softly, already knowing the answer.

He was on his feet before she could finish. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Thank you.”

The moment {{user}} was in his arms, Mattheo’s whole body shifted. The tension in his jaw loosened, the storm in his chest stilled. You giggled, reaching your chubby hands toward his face as your bright little sea-green eyes gleamed up at him. They were your mother’s eyes, and every time he saw them, his heart twisted with both ache and gratitude.

“Hey, baby girl,” he whispered, pressing his forehead gently against yours, swaying you softly. “Did you miss me?”

Your small hand gripped a strand of his dark hair, tugging playfully. Mattheo chuckled under his breath, eyes glistening with warmth his friends rarely saw from him.

“Mate, she’s gonna have your temper, you know,” Theo smirked from his bed, watching the tender scene with mild amusement.

“She will,” Lorenzo said calmly, voice smooth like silk as he leaned back in his chair. “Maybe worse.”

Draco, leaning against the window frame, spoke for the first time. “No… She’s going to be better than all of us. And she’ll have us.”

“She’s got a whole army of uncles,” Theodore added, raising his hand dramatically.