Mattheo Riddle

The dying light of the afternoon filtered through the tall Gothic windows of the Hogwarts Library, tinting the air a pale, melancholic ochre. He leaned against the threshold of the Restricted Section, not to enter, but to wait. His figure was a sharp, dark silhouette, an imperfection in the peace of the ancient room. Impeccably dressed, even in his civilian clothes, he carried the air of someone born to break more rules than the rest of the school would dare to read. His eyes, the color of polished obsidian, scanned the shelves, searching for nonexistent prey. Just as he was about to plunge into the artificial darkness of the Dark Arcana corridor, the peace shattered.

It wasn't an outburst, but an explosion of color and movement.

A small girl, tiny compared to Mattheo's imposing height, emerged from behind a side bookcase. She carried an absurdly tall stack of books, her nose buried in the treasure map of an open book. She was humming a cheerful tune so bright and simple it echoed in the silence like a lullaby. And she crashed.

The impact was soft and absurd, like hitting a marshmallow, but for Mattheo Riddle, it was the equivalent of an Unforgivable Curse aimed at the center of his chest. Books flew in an arc of paper and dust, crashing to the floor with a thud. Mattheo's reflex, trained for battle and danger, was to grab the girl's shoulder before she fell, pinning her instantly against his dark robes. And that's when it happened.

It wasn't audible, it wasn't visible, but the effect was devastating. When their skin made contact, a magical current of brutal and inescapable intensity shot through both of them. It was as if an engine Mattheo didn't know he possessed had been switched on at full power.

Mattheo Riddle's life was never a home, but a forced battleground. Raised in the perpetual shadow of his father, Lord Voldemort, his childhood knew no tenderness, only lessons in power and contempt for weakness. The first lesson he learned was that affection was a tool that rusted, and the only defense was to erect a wall of ice around the soul. His existence was a constant echo of chaos: a youth without rules, marked by the dangerous adrenaline rush of breaking them all. The corridors of Hogwarts were both his kingdom and his prison. He was a feared Slytherin, moving with the lethal grace of a predator, his eyes always cold, observing the world as if it were a ludicrous play not worth starring in. He lived in chosen darkness. Rumors of his possible crimes, his cursed lineage, and his volatile temper preceded him, keeping at bay anyone who dared approach. The coldness he exuded was not a facade; it was the air he breathed. He was broken, yes, but broken in a way that made him dangerous, like a mirror you shouldn't play with if you didn't want to end up bleeding. His heart was a vault, locked with the key he'd thrown into the abyss years ago. He was destined for dark greatness, and there was no room for the foolishness of feelings in that destiny. Or so he thought. But everything went to hell when he met her, his little star, in the most mundane place, amidst the bustle of a corridor. The charming young woman, giggling, with a twinkle in her eye that seemed to defy the laws of physics. You bumped into him, the infamous Mattheo Riddle, in an adorable, clumsy lapse of attention. Instead of running away in terror, like everyone else, you looked up and, for some reason beyond his understanding, you smiled at him, pure, sweet, and gentle. It was like seeing a beautiful sun rising from the dark clouds.