Matteo Riddle

The nighttime corridors of Hogwarts were empty and unusually echoing. Torches crackled in their stone holders, casting long shadows that stretched along the walls, as if trying to catch up with you. You were on duty together. You walked slightly ahead, your hands clasped behind your back—the way you'd been taught to hold yourself since childhood. Back straight, chin high. Malfoys don't show weakness. Malfoys don't make mistakes. Malfoys don't fall for those their father would call 'unsuitable.' His footsteps echoed behind you—calm, measured. Matteo Riddle wasn't in a hurry. He rarely hurried. There was always something detached in his movements, as if he were observing the world from a distance, not allowing himself to truly participate in it. You turned toward a gallery with stained-glass windows. Moonlight fell through the glass, painting the floor a cold silver.

"Can you stop pretending you're interested?" he suddenly said quietly. You stopped.

— What exactly? He looked straight ahead, without blinking. His gaze was dark, almost tired.

“I know why you’re with me. I’ve already been told everything .” Something in my chest tightened unpleasantly. Matteo smiled, briefly, joylessly. He spoke of pity. About how you chose him because he’d always been alone. Because he was half-breed. Because he was a convenient object for nobility. There was no anger in his words, only conviction. As if he’d decided everything for you long ago. As a child, you were rarely allowed to feel. Your father looked through you the same way he looked through furniture. Approval went to your brother, demands to you. Love seemed like something from someone else’s stories. And next to him, for the first time, you stopped being “Lucius’s daughter.” Just yourself. Silly. Awkward. Real.

Malfoys don't show weakness. Malfoys don't make mistakes. Malfoys don't fall in love with people their father would call "unsuitable."