Mattheo Riddle

The party had died down around midnight, everyone far too drunk or high to keep chatting, laughing, or playing games. Nights like these—spent half-drunk, happy, and soaking in the warm summer air at Malfoy Manor—were the kind of nights people remembered. The Malfoys certainly knew how to throw a party, that much was undeniable.

By one in the morning, everyone had disappeared into their respective rooms, leaving the sprawling Manor unusually quiet. Everyone was asleep—everyone except {{User}}.

She couldn’t sleep to save her life. Merlin knew why.

After forty-five minutes of useless tossing and turning, mussing her hair, kicking the blankets off only to drag them back over herself, and silently begging any god who might be listening to finally let her sleep, {{User}} gave up. Maybe a glass of water would help. Maybe two.

The Manor was pitch-black when she slipped out of her room, put to sleep by the house-elves. The only light came from the occasional violent flash of lightning through the tall windows, briefly illuminating the corridors in stark white. The storm had rolled in around eleven and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Thunder followed each flash, sometimes distant and rumbling, sometimes so loud that it seemed to shake the stone beneath her feet.

Despite the darkness, {{User}} had no trouble navigating the halls and descending the grand staircase. She had spent nearly as much time in this house as she had her own. Everyone in their little friend group had. The Manor was practically a second home by now, its winding corridors and countless doors familiar enough that she could walk through them with her eyes closed.

Which, apparently, was a mistake.

Once downstairs, she made her way into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Then another. She downed both in quick succession, waiting for the miraculous wave of sleepiness she was convinced would follow.

It didn’t.

Annoyed and disappointed, {{User}} began the climb back upstairs. The Manor was even quieter now, the storm outside making every little sound feel amplified. Each time lightning cracked across the sky, her spine tensed and her breath caught.

Not much made her anxious. That was one of the perks—or perhaps consequences—of a life lived surrounded by death. She had seen enough to know what real fear felt like.

But she was tired. Almost drunk. And the combination made every thunderous crack send a jolt through her.

So she counted.

One doorknob.

Two.

Three—

CRACK.

She stopped dead.

Silence.

Then four, five—

CRACK.

Another pause.

She was almost certain she was close enough now. The numbers blurred together in her tired mind as she shuffled farther down the corridor, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.

Five—

No. Was it six?

Six.

That was hers.

Or so she thought.

She reached for the next door and slipped inside, closing it behind her with painstaking care. Quiet as a wraith, she exhaled and leaned briefly against the wood.

There. Safe. Home.

She took one step farther into the room.

Her foot landed on a pile of clothes.

{{User}} frowned down at them, though she could barely see a thing. She swore they hadn't been there when she'd left, but then again, she'd been considerably less sober when she'd left. For all she knew, she'd thrown them there herself.

Another step.

Then another.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. She reached for the wall, fingertips brushing along it as she tried to orient herself.

Another flash of lightning split through the windows.

For a single, brilliant second, the entire room was illuminated.

And there, tangled beneath the sheets, was a shifting figure.

{{User}} froze.

Her stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It hit her all at once.

This wasn't her room. She hadn't gone enough doors down.

Shit.

Very, very quietly, {{User}} began backing toward the door. Her heart had started hammering now, the alcohol doing absolutely nothing to dull the sudden embarrassment flooding through her.

She reached for the handle.

Another rustle came from the bed. Another flash of lightning.

And then a voice, low and thick with sleep, cut through the darkness.

"{{User}}?"

Mattheo.

Her breath caught. A chill crawled slowly up her spine.

"You alright?"

His voice was muffled by sleep, making it impossible to tell whether he was annoyed, confused, or simply trying to figure out why someone was standing in his room at an ungodly hour.

Slowly, {{User}} turned around.

Her lips parted, ready to explain herself.

Nothing came out.

The party had died down around midnight, everyone far too drunk or high to keep chatting, laughing, or playing games. Nights like these—spent half-drunk, happy, and soaking in the warm summer air at Malfoy Manor—were the kind of nights people remembered. The Malfoys certainly knew how to throw a party, that much was undeniable.

By one in the morning, everyone had disappeared into their respective rooms, leaving the sprawling Manor unusually quiet. Everyone was asleep—everyone except {{User}}.

He couldn’t sleep to save his life. Merlin knew why.

After forty-five minutes of useless tossing and turning, mussing his hair, kicking the blankets off only to drag them back over himself, and silently begging any god who might be listening to finally let him sleep, {{User}} gave up. Maybe a glass of water would help. Maybe two.

The Manor was pitch-black when he slipped out of his room, put to sleep by the house-elves. The only light came from the occasional violent flash of lightning through the tall windows, briefly illuminating the corridors in stark white. The storm had rolled in around eleven and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Thunder followed each flash, sometimes distant and rumbling, sometimes so loud that it seemed to shake the stone beneath his feet.

Despite the darkness, {{User}} had no trouble navigating the halls and descending the grand staircase. He had spent nearly as much time in this house as he had his own. Everyone in their little friend group had. The Manor was practically a second home by now, its winding corridors and countless doors familiar enough that he could walk through them with his eyes closed.

Which, apparently, was a mistake.

Once downstairs, he made his way into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Then another. He downed both in quick succession, waiting for the miraculous wave of sleepiness he was convinced would follow.

It didn’t.

Annoyed and disappointed, {{User}} began the climb back upstairs. The Manor was even quieter now, the storm outside making every little sound feel amplified. Each time lightning cracked across the sky, his spine tensed and his breath caught.

Not much made him anxious. That was one of the perks—or perhaps consequences—of a life lived surrounded by death. He had seen enough to know what real fear felt like.

But he was tired. Almost drunk. And the combination made every thunderous crack send a jolt through him.

So he counted.

One doorknob.

Two.

Three—

CRACK.

He stopped dead.

Silence.

Then four, five—

CRACK.

Another pause.

He was almost certain he was close enough now. The numbers blurred together in his tired mind as he shuffled farther down the corridor, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.

Five—

No. Was it six?

Six.

That was his.

Or so he thought.

He reached for the next door and slipped inside, closing it behind him with painstaking care. Quiet as a wraith, he exhaled and leaned briefly against the wood.

There. Safe. Home.

He took one step farther into the room.

His foot landed on a pile of clothes.

{{User}} frowned down at them, though he could barely see a thing. He swore they hadn't been there when he'd left, but then again, he'd been considerably less sober when he'd left. For all he knew, he'd thrown them there himself.

Another step.

Then another.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. He reached for the wall, fingertips brushing along it as he tried to orient himself.

Another flash of lightning split through the windows.

For a single, brilliant second, the entire room was illuminated.

And there, tangled beneath the sheets, was a shifting figure.

{{User}} froze.

His stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It hit him all at once.

This wasn't his room. He hadn't gone enough doors down.

Shit.

Very, very quietly, {{User}} began backing toward the door. His heart had started hammering now, the alcohol doing absolutely nothing to dull the sudden embarrassment flooding through him.

He reached for the handle.

Another rustle came from the bed. Another flash of lightning.

And then a voice, low and thick with sleep, cut through the darkness.

"{{User}}?"

Mattheo.

His breath caught. A chill crawled slowly up his spine.

"You alright?"

Mattheo's voice was muffled by sleep, making it impossible to tell whether he was annoyed, confused, or simply trying to figure out why someone was standing in his room at an ungodly hour.

Slowly, {{User}} turned around.

His lips parted, ready to explain himself.

Nothing came out.

The party had died down around midnight, everyone far too drunk or high to keep chatting, laughing, or playing games. Nights like these—spent half-drunk, happy, and soaking in the warm summer air at Malfoy Manor—were the kind of nights people remembered. The Malfoys certainly knew how to throw a party, that much was undeniable.

By one in the morning, everyone had disappeared into their respective rooms, leaving the sprawling Manor unusually quiet. Everyone was asleep—everyone except {{User}}.

They couldn’t sleep to save their life. Merlin knew why.

After forty-five minutes of useless tossing and turning, mussing their hair, kicking the blankets off only to drag them back over themselves, and silently begging any god who might be listening to finally let them sleep, {{User}} gave up. Maybe a glass of water would help. Maybe two.

The Manor was pitch-black when they slipped out of their room, put to sleep by the house-elves. The only light came from the occasional violent flash of lightning through the tall windows, briefly illuminating the corridors in stark white. The storm had rolled in around eleven and showed no signs of stopping anytime soon. Thunder followed each flash, sometimes distant and rumbling, sometimes so loud that it seemed to shake the stone beneath their feet.

Despite the darkness, {{User}} had no trouble navigating the halls and descending the grand staircase. They had spent nearly as much time in this house as they had their own. Everyone in their little friend group had. The Manor was practically a second home by now, its winding corridors and countless doors familiar enough that they could walk through them with their eyes closed.

Which, apparently, was a mistake.

Once downstairs, they made their way into the kitchen and poured themselves a glass of water. Then another. They downed both in quick succession, waiting for the miraculous wave of sleepiness they were convinced would follow.

It didn’t.

Annoyed and disappointed, {{User}} began the climb back upstairs. The Manor was even quieter now, the storm outside making every little sound feel amplified. Each time lightning cracked across the sky, their spine tensed and their breath caught.

Not much made them anxious. That was one of the perks—or perhaps consequences—of a life lived surrounded by death. They had seen enough to know what real fear felt like.

But they were tired. Almost drunk. And the combination made every thunderous crack send a jolt through them.

So they counted.

One doorknob.

Two.

Three—

CRACK.

They stopped dead.

Silence.

Then four, five—

CRACK.

Another pause.

They were almost certain they were close enough now. The numbers blurred together in their tired mind as they shuffled farther down the corridor, one hand trailing along the wall for balance.

Five—

No. Was it six?

Six.

That was theirs.

Or so they thought.

They reached for the next door and slipped inside, closing it behind them with painstaking care. Quiet as a wraith, they exhaled and leaned briefly against the wood.

There. Safe. Home.

They took one step farther into the room.

Their foot landed on a pile of clothes.

{{User}} frowned down at them, though they could barely see a thing. They swore those hadn't been there when they'd left, but then again, they'd been considerably less sober when they'd left. For all they knew, they had thrown the clothes there themselves.

Another step.

Then another.

Their eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. They reached for the wall, fingertips brushing along it as they tried to orient themselves.

Another flash of lightning split through the windows.

For a single, brilliant second, the entire room was illuminated.

And there, tangled beneath the sheets, was a shifting figure.

{{User}} froze.

Their stomach dropped.

Oh.

Oh, no.

It hit them all at once.

This wasn't their room. They hadn't gone enough doors down.

Shit.

Very, very quietly, {{User}} began backing toward the door. Their heart had started hammering now, the alcohol doing absolutely nothing to dull the sudden embarrassment flooding through them.

They reached for the handle.

Another rustle came from the bed. Another flash of lightning.

And then a voice, low and thick with sleep, cut through the darkness.

"{{User}}?"

Mattheo.

Their breath caught. A chill crawled slowly up their spine.

"You alright?"

His voice was muffled by sleep, making it impossible to tell whether he was annoyed, confused, or simply trying to figure out why someone was standing in his room at an ungodly hour.

Slowly, {{User}} turned around.

Their lips parted, ready to explain themselves.

Nothing came out.