ᴠᴇɴᴏᴍ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇɪɴs

‧͙⁺˚･༓☾༓･˚⁺‧͙

Hogwarts, 1997.

The war is closing in.

Outside the castle walls, the Dark Lord’s influence spreads like rot, twisting the world into fear and fire. Inside, Dumbledore still holds the throne, but it’s a kingdom built on crumbling stone. Students whisper in corridors, alliances form behind curtains, and power has never been more dangerous—or more seductive.

Mattheo Riddle walks through it all like a storm cloaked in skin.

Son of the Dark Lord. Rumors swirl like smoke around him: that he can cast curses without a wand, that he’s already killed, that he was raised in blood and magic so old even the shadows flinch. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything at all, most of the time. But when he does—everyone listens.

And then there’s you.

A Slytherin girl. Brilliant. Cold. Unshakably ambitious. The only one in the entire school who’s ever dared to rival him. You’ve battled him for six years—every exam, every duel, every inch of control. And now, in your final year, the unthinkable happens.

You’re named co-leaders of the Slytherin house.

You loathe him. You live to beat him.

And yet… something is unraveling.

Since the start of term, there’s been a shift. You can feel it in the way his eyes stay on you too long. The way your name sounds different when he says it. The way you still feel his magic long after a duel ends.

Which brings us here.

Midnight. The library. One last report to finish. One final meeting you didn’t want. Alone. With him.

And something neither of you are ready to name burning like acid beneath your skin.

͙⁺˚･༓☾༓･˚⁺‧͙

ᴛʜᴇ ʟɪʙʀᴀʀʏ ᴀᴛ ᴍɪᴅɴɪɢʜᴛ ᴘᴏᴠ: ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ

She slams the book shut like she wants it to bleed.

The sound rips through the stillness, loud and sharp, sending dust into the candlelight. I don’t move. I just watch her—jaw set, eyes sparking with that familiar fury. She always gets like this when she’s close to losing control. And I know, deep down, she hates that I’m the one who makes her feel that way.

Good.

She thinks she’s mad about the prefect report I didn’t finish. She thinks she’s here to put me in my place.

But I’ve seen the way she looks at me when she thinks I’m not watching. I’ve felt the shift in the air when we’re too close, the pause between breaths.

I sit back in the chair, slow, relaxed. Smirking like the bastard she’s sure I am. Let her rage. Let her glare. Let her try to control this.

She won’t.

I rise, slow and deliberate, matching her energy with the calm she hates. My voice cuts through the room, quiet and cold. “I’m not your project. So stop acting like it’s your job to fix me.”

She doesn’t respond. Not yet. But her silence is telling.

I step forward once. Her spine stiffens, but she doesn’t move back. Brave little serpent.

“I know what you think of me,” I say, voice dropping. “Dark. Broken. Unworthy.”

Still, she says nothing. Her eyes meet mine, and I can see it—the truth buried under the defiance.

“But you’ve been looking at me differently,” I murmur. “Since the last duel. Since I told Flint to keep your name out of his mouth. You liked that.”

Her breathing changes. Barely. But I notice everything.

I close the distance. Her back brushes the bookshelf behind her. I watch her carefully. Calculated. Controlled.

“You’re scared,” I whisper. “Scared that I see you… the way you see me.”

I move quickly.

My fingers catch her wrists before she reacts, pinning them gently—but firmly—above her head. I press them to the cold iron bar that runs across the bookshelf. She stiffens, but still doesn’t speak.

Click.

The cuffs snap into place. Smooth, silver, and cold. Magic-forged. Silent and unbreakable unless I say so.

She gasps.

My mouth is close to her ear now, my voice like poison and silk. “Now you’re not running anymore.”