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slut4slytherinss · 13 days

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These feelings

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Summary: in which reader and Mattheo despise each other, until the moonflowers bloom.

1,767 words

Warnings: no mention of the Slytherin friend group, Tom is Mattheo’s dad in this, surprisingly I’ve managed to write no cursing so.. ooc Mattheo! Rushed and not proofread, a total cliffhanger.

2nd person pov

Gryffindor reader

Female reader

The air in the Potions classroom crackled with more than just the fumes of Bubotuber pus. Mattheo Riddle, the epitome of Slytherin arrogance, smirked across the cauldron at you, a Gryffindor simmering with righteous indignation. His obsidian eyes, a chilling reflection of his infamous father, held a challenge you couldn't resist.

"Looks like your concoction resembles swamp muck more than Veritaserum, Gryffindor," Mattheo drawled, his voice a silken threat.

You bristled, your retort sharp. "At least I haven't resorted to cheating, Riddle." You knew it was untrue, at least in this class, but the way he effortlessly manipulated his potion, his every movement oozing practiced superiority, grated on your nerves.

Professor Snape, his usual scowl deepening, swept between your cauldrons, his black robes billowing like a storm cloud. "Silence! Riddle, five points from Slytherin for your disruptive commentary. Y/n, another five from Gryffindor for accusations. Now, focus on your potions!"

The rest of the double Potions lesson crawled by, punctuated by stolen glances and silent barbs exchanged between you and Mattheo. You couldn't deny a strange pull towards him, a morbid fascination that warred with your Gryffindor loyalty. He was everything you loathed – a dark echo of the war that had ravaged the wizarding world – yet you couldn't tear your eyes away from his sharp features and the way his lips curled into a sardonic smile.

Days turned into weeks, the animosity between you a constant undercurrent. You'd clash in Defense Against the Dark Arts, your jinxes meeting his hexes in a flurry of sparks. In Herbology, you'd find his carefully tended Venomous Tentacula mysteriously wilting, a silent message that only you understood.

One blustery April evening, you were returning from the library, a stack of Transfiguration books threatening to topple over, when you bumped into someone. Books scattered across the wet cobblestones, a frustrated groan escaping your lips.

"Need a hand, Gryffindor?"

Looking up, you met Mattheo's gaze. The smirk was absent, replaced by a hint of amusement. You considered letting him wallow in your misfortune, but a flicker of something… kindness? in his eyes softened your resolve.

"Actually, yes," you admitted grudgingly.

Together, you gathered the books, a comfortable silence settling between you as you brushed dirt off the parchment. As you handed him a particularly heavy tome, your fingers brushed. A jolt of electricity shot through you, making you gasp.

Mattheo's eyes widened for a fleeting moment before he masked his surprise. "Seems you're not immune to all Slytherin charms, Gryffindor," he said, a hint of a challenge in his voice.

Heat flooded your cheeks. You snatched the book back, stammering, "It's nothing. Just… static." You turned to leave, desperate to escape the unexpected turn of events.

"Wait," Mattheo called out, his voice softer than you expected. He hesitated, then added, "The greenhouses are open tonight. The moonflowers are supposed to be blooming."

You stared at him, unsure of his motives. Was this another one of his games? Yet, the allure of the moonflowers, a rare and beautiful sight, was too strong to resist.

"Fine," you finally conceded, surprising yourself.

The walk to the greenhouses was filled with a tense silence. You stole glances at Mattheo, his profile sharp under the moonlight. He seemed different tonight, a vulnerability lurking beneath his usual arrogance.

Reaching the greenhouse dedicated to magical flora, you were greeted by the ethereal glow of moonflowers. Their petals, the color of moonlight itself, shimmered with an otherworldly beauty.

"They're… amazing," you whispered, mesmerized.

Mattheo stood beside you, uncharacteristically quiet. "They say they grant wishes," he said, his voice barely above a murmur.

You scoffed. "Wishes? Like childish fairy tales?"

He didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the moonflowers. You felt a sudden urge to know him better, to understand the darkness that clung to him like a shadow.

"Tell me about your father," you blurted out, the words catching in your throat.

Mattheo's head snapped towards you, his eyes hardening. "Don't," he growled, a dangerous edge to his voice.

Regret washed over you. You knew it was a forbidden topic, a raw nerve he wouldn't appreciate being prodded.

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, turning away.

A tense silence stretched between you and Mattheo, broken only by the soft hum of nocturnal insects. The ethereal glow of the moonflowers seemed to mock the awkwardness, their delicate beauty a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing within you.

"It's not that simple," Mattheo finally said, his voice low and strained. "He's powerful, yes, but there's more to him than just darkness. There's a reason some still follow him, a reason I can't entirely… disavow."

His words hung heavy in the air. You understood his hesitation. Voldemort, his father, was a symbol of pure evil, a name whispered in fear. Yet, a part of you couldn't help but feel a flicker of sympathy for Mattheo, burdened by the weight of such a legacy.

"Do you… fear him?" you asked softly, surprised by your own boldness.

Mattheo turned to you, his obsidian eyes filled with a complex mix of emotions you couldn't decipher. "Fear is a luxury I can't afford," he said finally. "But there's a constant… wariness. A knowledge that even the smallest misstep could have dire consequences."

You felt a pang of empathy for him. Despite his aloofness and occasional cruelty, Mattheo was just a boy, grappling with the burden of a monstrous father.

"You're not him, Mattheo," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "You have a choice."

He flinched at your touch, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Then, slowly, he lowered his gaze to where your hand rested on his arm. The air crackled with unspoken tension, a silent question hanging between you.

The heat radiating from his arm beneath your touch was unexpected, a stark contrast to the coolness of the night air. His fingers twitched, a silent battle raging within him between acknowledging the connection and maintaining his usual stoic facade.

"I know," Mattheo said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "And that's exactly what scares me." He turned away, his back ramrod straight, but you could see the vulnerability flickering in his tightly held posture.

"What scares you?" you asked softly, stepping closer. He remained silent, his jaw clenched, until you reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair out of his eyes. His head snapped back, his gaze meeting yours, a storm of emotions brewing within.

"That this," he said, his voice thick with emotion, "this feeling… it weakens me." He gestured vaguely around the greenhouse, the unspoken implication clear - the vulnerability you represented put him at risk.

"Weakens you how?" you pressed, your voice a gentle challenge. "Makes you a target? Or makes you… feel something you haven't allowed yourself to feel before?"

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a grudging respect. He sighed, a tremor of vulnerability in the breath that escaped his lips. "Both," he admitted, his voice raw. "The truth is… I haven't allowed myself to feel anything for anyone other than myself in a long time."

His words hung in the air, a heavy confession. You understood. Growing up in the shadow of Voldemort, fear and suspicion were likely the only emotions he knew. The vulnerability he felt towards you was a foreign territory, something he didn't know how to navigate, something that scared him.

"Maybe that's not a bad thing," you said softly, your heart pounding in your chest. "Maybe feeling something, even fear, is better than feeling nothing at all."

He stared at you for a long moment, searching your eyes. In that moment, the air vibrated with unspoken emotions – a mixture of fear, curiosity, and a spark of something else entirely.

"Maybe," he finally conceded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The tension started to dissipate, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

Suddenly, the harsh clanging of the castle curfew bell echoed through the night. Both of you jumped, startled by the sound.

"We should get back," Mattheo said, his voice regaining its usual composure. He offered you his hand, the gesture unexpectedly formal.

You hesitated for a beat, surprised by the formality of his outstretched hand. It was a stark contrast to the raw vulnerability he'd just revealed. Was he retreating back behind his Slytherin mask, the emotional connection a fleeting aberration?

Taking a deep breath, you slipped your hand into his. The warmth from his touch sent a jolt through you, a silent confirmation that the moment hadn't been entirely imagined.

"We should," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper.

The walk back to the castle was filled with a comfortable silence, a stark contrast to the charged tension that usually surrounded your interactions. You stole glances at Mattheo, his profile etched sharp against the moonlight. He seemed different tonight, a vulnerability lurking beneath his usual arrogance, a flicker of hope battling the ever-present wariness in his eyes.

As you approached the castle grounds, the imposing silhouette of the building a stark reminder of the rules and boundaries that separated Gryffindors and Slytherins, Mattheo stopped abruptly.

"Wait," he said, his voice low.

You turned to face him, your heart pounding in your chest. He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray curl behind your ear. His touch lingered for a moment, sending shivers down your spine.

"This…" he began, his voice husky, "this can't happen again, can it?"

His question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. The danger of their connection, the weight of his family legacy, the very real possibility of getting hurt – all of it swirled in the space between you.

"I don't know," you admitted honestly. "But maybe…" you trailed off, searching his eyes. "Maybe it doesn't have to be like this. Maybe there's another way."

A flicker of surprise crossed his face, followed by a slow, hesitant smile. "Another way?" he echoed, a hint of hope creeping into his voice.

You stepped even closer, your voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe we can find a way to be… more. Not enemies, not exactly friends, but something in between. Something real."

He stared at you for a long moment, the moonlight glinting off the unshed tears in his eyes. Then, slowly, he reached out and cupped your cheek with his hand.

"Maybe," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "Maybe we can try."

The bell tolled once more, a harsh reminder of the world outside their bubble. With a final lingering look, Mattheo squeezed your hand gently before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the castle.

A/n: would you guys hate me if I ended it like that?

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