Devils Obsession

The first time I saw Mattheo Riddle, he was carving his initials into the underside of the Slytherin table with a knife he definitely wasn't supposed to have.

I noticed because I notice everything. It's a habit I picked up somewhere between learning to read and learning to keep my mouth shut, the kind of habit that makes you good at exams and terrible at parties. I was sitting three tables over, pretending to study for Potions, watching him work the blade in small, precise strokes while Theodore Nott talked at him about something that clearly didn't matter.

He didn't look up. Not once. But I felt him anyway. That's the thing about Mattheo. He doesn't need to look at you to make you aware of him. He just exists, and the air changes.

"Stop staring," Daphne whispered, not looking up from her Transfiguration notes. "You'll get yourself killed."

"I'm not staring."

"You're staring."

I turned a page I hadn't read. The words blurred. Across the hall, Mattheo finished his carving and slid the knife back into his sleeve like it was nothing. Like we all hadn't watched him do it.

That was October. By November, I'd stopped pretending I wasn't looking.

---

Here's what everyone knows about Mattheo Riddle:

His father was a monster. Not the kind that hides under beds, the kind that makes history books uncomfortable. The kind that people still won't say the name of, even now, even after everything. Mattheo has his father's eyes, they say. Dark and depthless and wrong somehow.

His mother died when he was young. No one knows how. No one asks.

He's been at Hogwarts since first year, same as the rest of us, but he's never really been here. He moves through the castle like a ghost who knows he's haunting it. Shows up to classes when he feels like it. Disappears for days at a time. Comes back with bruises he doesn't explain and a smile that makes people take a step back.

He's dangerous. That's the word they use. Dangerous, like it's a diagnosis. Like it's something you can catch if you stand too close.

I didn't believe it at first. Not because I thought he was misunderstood, I wasn't that naive. But because danger, real danger, doesn't announce itself. It doesn't walk around with a sign. It sits quietly in the corner and waits for you to come to it.

Mattheo Riddle didn't wait for anything.

---

The thing is, I wasn't supposed to be at that party.

Slytherin common room, Friday night, the kind of gathering that happens when someone's parents send too much firewhiskey and not enough supervision. I'd only gone because Daphne begged, and because I'd spent the last three weeks doing nothing but studying, and because there's only so many times you can say no before people start asking questions.

I should have stayed in the library.

The common room was packed, green light from the lake rippling across the ceiling, music thrumming through the stone floor. I found a corner near the fireplace and tried to make myself small. It's a skill I've perfected over the years. Be quiet, be still, be forgettable. Most people never notice you're there.

Mattheo noticed.

He was across the room, surrounded by his usual orbit of people. Draco Malfoy's cousin or something, I never got the family tree straight. Blaise Zabini, who was beautiful in a way that made you feel like you were looking at a painting. Pansy Parkinson, who laughed too loud and watched Mattheo like he was the only person in the room.

And Mattheo. Always Mattheo. Center of gravity.

I didn't see him look at me. But suddenly he was looking, and the room got very quiet, or maybe that was just my ears ringing. He tilted his head. Just slightly. Like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

I looked away. Too fast. Too obvious.

When I looked back, he was smiling.

---

The next day, someone left a book on my usual table in the library.

Not just any book. A first edition of *Advanced Potion-Making*, the one with the annotations in the margins. I'd been trying to get my hands on a copy for months. The library's only had one, and it was always checked out. I'd complained about it to Daphne. To no one else.

There was no note. No name. Just the book, sitting there like it had always been there. Like it belonged.

I should have left it. I knew I should have left it. But I'd wanted that book for so long, and it was just sitting there, and maybe it was a mistake. Maybe someone had forgotten it. Maybe it wasn't for me at all.

I sat down and opened it.

The annotations were in a hand I didn't recognize. Sharp, slanted, almost angry. Notes on potion modifications, ingredient substitutions, warnings about side effects that weren't in the printed text. Whoever had written them knew what they were doing. Knew it better than Slughorn, probably.

I read for an hour. Two. I forgot to eat lunch.

When I finally looked up, the library was empty. And Mattheo was sitting at the table across from me, watching.

"You're welcome," he said.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. My mouth had gone dry, and my heart was doing something complicated in my chest, and he was just sitting there like this was normal. Like he hadn't just given me something I'd been wanting for months.

"It's not a trick," he said. "I'm not going to ask for anything."

"That's what makes it a trick."

He smiled. Not the sharp, dangerous smile I'd seen him use on other people. Something smaller. Almost real.

"You're smarter than you look," he said.

"You don't know how I look."

"I know exactly how you look."

He stood up, and I noticed the way he moved. Fluid. Careful. Like he was always aware of his own body, always in control. He walked past my table, close enough that I could smell him. Cigarettes and something sweet. Something that reminded me of thunderstorms.

"Keep the book," he said, not stopping. "I have others."

---

I didn't tell anyone.

That's the part I'm not proud of. I should have told Daphne, should have said something, anything. But I didn't. I kept the book under my bed like a secret, like something shameful, and I read it every night by wandlight.

The annotations were fascinating. Whoever had written them had a mind like a razor. They saw connections I'd never thought of, made leaps that shouldn't have worked but did. I started to look forward to opening it, to seeing what new thing I'd learn. To feeling like I was having a conversation with someone brilliant.

I didn't let myself think about who that someone was.

The second book appeared a week later. *Secrets of the Darkest Art*, which was definitely banned, definitely not something a sixth-year should have. It was waiting for me in the common room, on the armchair I always sat in. No note. No name. Just the book, and the faint smell of cigarettes.

I should have turned it in. I should have reported it. I should have done a lot of things.

I read it in three days.

---

He started appearing everywhere after that.

Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I noticed. I noticed him in the Great Hall, always at the Slytherin table but always facing my direction. I noticed him in the corridors, leaning against walls, watching me pass. I noticed him in the library, always at the same table, always alone, always with a book he never seemed to actually read.

He never approached me. Never spoke. Just watched. And waited.

It was a game, I realized. He was waiting for me to come to him.

I didn't. I wouldn't. I had more sense than that, more self-preservation. I knew what he was. I knew what everyone said. I knew that getting involved with Mattheo Riddle was like walking into a fire and expecting not to burn.

But I couldn't stop thinking about him.

That was the worst part. Not the watching, not the books, not the way he seemed to know everything about me without ever asking a single question. The worst part was that I couldn't stop thinking about him. He was in my head, in my dreams, in the quiet moments between classes when I should have been thinking about anything else.

I started to wonder if that was the point. If he'd planned this. If the books, the watching, the waiting, all of it was just a way to get inside my head.

If it was, it worked.

---

The first time we spoke again was in the astronomy tower.

I went there to think. It was the one place in the castle where I could be alone, where no one would find me, where the air was cold and clean and the stars made everything feel small. I'd been going there since first year, since before I knew that Hogwarts could be dangerous, since before I knew that some people didn't care about rules.

I should have known he'd find me there too.

"You're predictable," he said from behind me.

I didn't turn around. "And you're following me."

"I prefer to think of it as being aware of your schedule."

"That's worse."

He laughed. A real laugh, low and warm, and I hated how much I liked the sound of it. He moved to stand beside me at the railing, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. I could see him in my peripheral vision, dark hair, dark eyes, the sharp line of his jaw.

"You're not afraid of me," he said. It wasn't a question.

"Should I be?"

"Everyone else is."

"I'm not everyone else."

He turned to look at me then, really look, and I felt it like a physical weight. Like he was seeing past my skin, past my bones, into something underneath that I hadn't even known was there.

"No," he said slowly. "You're not."

We stood there for a long time, not talking, just breathing. The stars wheeled overhead. The wind bit at my cheeks. And I felt something shift, something I couldn't name, something that felt like the beginning of something I couldn't stop.

"Why me?" I asked finally.

He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. Almost thoughtful.

"Because you looked at me like I was a person," he said. "Not a monster. Not a legend. Just a person. And I wanted to know what that felt like."

I didn't know what to say to that. So I said nothing.

He smiled, that small, almost-real smile. "You should go. It's late."

"I'm not tired."

"Neither am I. But you should go anyway."

I went. But I felt his eyes on me the whole way down the stairs, and I knew, with a certainty that settled into my bones like cold, that this wasn't over.

It was just beginning.

---

The rumors started after that.

Not about me, not exactly. About him. About us. Whispers in the corridors, glances in the Great Hall, the kind of speculation that happens when people have nothing better to do than talk about other people's lives.

"Did you hear? Mattheo Riddle's obsessed with someone."

"Who?"

"No one knows. But he's been following someone around. Watching them."

"That's creepy."

"That's Mattheo."

I kept my head down. Kept my mouth shut. Kept pretending I didn't know exactly who they were talking about.

But Daphne knew. Of course she knew. She'd known me since first year, since before I learned to hide, since before I learned to be forgettable. She cornered me in the dormitory one night, her arms crossed, her eyes sharp.

"What's going on with you and Riddle?"

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not lying."

She sat down on my bed, close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something floral. Something safe.

"I've seen the way he looks at you," she said. "I've seen the way you look at him. This isn't nothing."

"It doesn't matter how we look at each other."

"It matters if he's dangerous."

"He is."

"Then why are you doing this?"

I didn't have an answer. Not one I could explain, anyway. Not one that made sense.

"Because I can't stop," I said finally. "Because every time I try to stay away, I end up right back where I started. Because he knows me, Daphne. He knows me better than anyone, and I don't even know how."

She was quiet for a long time.

"Be careful," she said. "Please."

"I will."

I didn't.

---

The first time he kissed me, it was raining.

We were in the greenhouse, the one near the edge of the grounds, the one no one used anymore. I'd gone there to get away from everything, from the whispers, from the stares, from the weight of knowing that everyone was watching. He'd found me there, because of course he had, because he always found me.

"You're avoiding me," he said.

"I'm avoiding everyone."

"Not everyone. Just me."

I didn't deny it. There was no point.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I don't know what you want from me."

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the rain-soaked smell of him, the way he seemed to fill every empty space.

"I want everything," he said. "I want all of you. Every thought, every breath, every moment. I want to know what you're thinking before you think it. I want to be the first thing you see when you wake up and the last thing you see before you sleep. I want to consume you."

"That's not wanting," I said. "That's obsession."

"Same thing."

He kissed me then, before I could argue, before I could think, before I could do anything but feel. His lips were cold from the rain, but his mouth was warm, and he kissed me like he was drowning, like I was air, like he'd been waiting his whole life for this moment and couldn't bear to waste another second.

I kissed him back. I couldn't help it. I'd been wanting this, denying this, fighting this for weeks, and now that it was happening, I couldn't remember why I'd ever tried to stop.

When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine. His eyes were closed. His breathing was uneven.

"You're going to ruin me," he said.

"I think it's the other way around."

He laughed, that low, warm laugh. "Maybe. Maybe we'll ruin each other."

"Is that supposed to be romantic?"

"I don't know. I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"This. Wanted someone. Actually wanted them, not just for a night, not just for fun. Wanted them in a way that scares me."

I pulled back, just enough to look at him. His eyes were open now, dark and depthless and wrong, just like everyone said. But they weren't wrong. They were just... his. Just Mattheo.

"What are you scared of?" I asked.

"Losing you."

"You don't have me yet."

"I know." He touched my face, gentle, like I was something fragile. "But I will. I'll have all of you. And then I'll lose you, because that's what happens to people like me. We don't get to keep things."

I should have walked away then. I should have seen the warning signs, the red flags, the way he was already talking about losing me like it was inevitable. I should have protected myself.

Instead, I kissed him again.

---

The thing about Mattheo is that he's not what people think.

He's not a monster. He's not a villain. He's not even particularly cruel, not in the way that matters. He's just... broken. Cracked in places that never healed right. Missing pieces that he's spent his whole life trying to fill with things that don't fit.

His father. His mother. The weight of a name that means something terrible. The way people look at him like they're waiting for him to snap.

He told me once, in the quiet of the astronomy tower, that he doesn't remember his mother's face. That she died when he was three, and all he has are fragments. The smell of her perfume. The sound of her voice. The way she used to sing to him at night, songs he can't remember the words to.

"I used to think she was still alive," he said. "That she'd just left, and one day she'd come back. I used to wait by the window for hours, watching for her. My father thought I was losing my mind."

"Were you?"

"Maybe. I don't know. I was just a kid."

He was quiet for a moment, staring at the stars.

"I stopped waiting eventually," he said. "I stopped believing she'd come back. And I stopped believing in a lot of things after that."

"Like what?"

"Like love. Like goodness. Like the idea that people are fundamentally decent and things work out in the end."

"That's a sad way to live."

"It's the only way I know."

I wanted to tell him he was wrong. I wanted to tell him that love was real, that goodness existed, that people could be decent and things could work out. But I didn't know if I believed it myself. And I didn't want to lie to him.

So I just held his hand. And we watched the stars together. And I pretended that was enough.

---

The secrets started surfacing in December.

It was small at first. A whisper here, a rumor there. Something about the Chamber of Secrets, about something hidden beneath the castle, about a darkness that had been sleeping for centuries and was starting to wake.

I didn't pay attention at first. I was too focused on Mattheo, on the way he looked at me, on the way he touched me, on the way he seemed to need me like he needed air. I was too caught up in the feeling of being wanted, of being seen, of being the one person who could reach him.

But then I started to notice things.

The way he'd disappear for hours and come back with dirt under his nails. The way he'd stare at the walls sometimes, like he could see through them. The way he'd talk in his sleep, words I couldn't understand, words that sounded like they belonged to another language entirely.

"What's going on with you?" I asked him one night.

"Nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

He looked at me then, and for a moment, I saw something in his eyes. Something dark. Something scared.

"There's something under the castle," he said. "Something my father left behind. Something I'm supposed to find."

"Supposed to?"

"He left instructions. Before he died. Things he wanted me to do."

"What kind of things?"

He didn't answer. Just looked at me with those dark, depthless eyes, and I felt something cold settle in my chest.

"Mattheo," I said. "What kind of things?"

"I don't know yet," he said. "But I'm going to find out."

---

I should have walked away then.

I should have seen the signs, the warnings, the way he was already pulling away from me and toward something darker. I should have protected myself, protected my heart, protected everything I had to lose.

But I didn't.

Because I was already in too deep. Because I'd already given him too much. Because I knew, with a certainty that terrified me, that I would follow him anywhere. Even into the dark. Even into the fire.

Even into whatever was waiting beneath the castle.

That was the problem with Mattheo Riddle. He didn't know how to want something halfway. And neither did I.

We were both going to burn.

The only question was how long it would take.