Sacred Devotion [Mattheo Riddle]

CHAPTER THREE

"She's nothing," Pansy sneered from across the table, her voice sharp enough to slice through my thoughts. "Gryffindor trash already. Probably thinks she's special, standing up there like a lost lamb." Blaise chuckled, and Draco just shrugged, picking at his nails like he didn't care. They didn't see it—didn't feel it. Good. Let them think she's nothing. I'd keep this to myself.

I glanced at her again, caught the way her fingers shook as she reached for a goblet. Fragile, yeah, but not breaking. Not yet. I didn't know why that made me want to push her—to test her, see how far she'd bend before she snapped. Lust, I thought one last time, clinging to it like a lifeline. But the wariness wouldn't leave, coiling tight around whatever this was, and I knew, deep down, she'd already gotten under my skin.

***

The noise of the Gryffindor table washed over me—forks clinking, voices overlapping, laughter that felt too loud for my spinning head. I sat there, hands folded in my lap, the plate of roast and potatoes in front of me untouched. My stomach was a knot, twisting tighter every time I felt that pull—like invisible threads tugging me back toward the Slytherin table. Toward him. I didn't want to look again, didn't want to risk catching those dark eyes boring into me, but the memory of them wouldn't fade. Sharp, heavy, alive in a way that made my skin crawl.

I shifted, my shoulder brushing the boy next to me—Harry Potter, with his messy hair and round glasses, still chatting with a redhead across the table. They'd welcomed me, sort of, with quick smiles and a "Sit here" that felt more polite than warm. I wasn't one of them, not really, and the gap between us yawned wide. But they were all I had right now, so I swallowed the lump in my throat and leaned toward Harry, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Who's that?" I asked, nodding toward the Slytherin table, careful not to lift my eyes too high. "The one at the end. Dark hair."

Harry paused, fork halfway to his mouth, and followed my gaze. His expression shifted—tightened, just for a second—before he set the fork down. "Him?" he said, his tone dropping low, like he didn't want the others to hear. "That's Mattheo Riddle."

The name landed like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold. Riddle. I knew that name—everyone did, even across the ocean at Ilvermorny. My breath hitched, and I glanced at Harry, waiting for more.

He hesitated, then leaned in closer, his voice a quiet thread under the din. "Yeah, Riddle. As in Tom Riddle's son. Voldemort's. He's been dead a long time—Voldemort, I mean—but Mattheo..he's here. Eighteen, last year at Hogwarts, and it's a bloody miracle they let him stay."

The redhead—Ron, I'd caught his name earlier—leaned over, his freckled face twisting into a scowl. "Miracle? More like a curse. He's just like his father—dark, twisted, you can see it in him. Everyone knows it. Dunno why Dumbledore didn't boot him out years ago."

"Ron," a girl with bushy hair—Hermione—cut in, her tone sharp but tired, like they'd had this argument before. "We don't know that. He's never done anything—nothing they can prove, anyway. But.." She trailed off, her eyes flicking toward the Slytherin table, then back to me. "Just steer clear, Desiree. He's trouble."

Trouble. The word sank into me, cold and sharp, and I risked a glance across the hall. Mattheo was still there, slouched at the table's edge, picking at his food now, but those eyes flicked up again—straight to me. My heart stuttered, and I dropped my gaze fast, heat rushing to my face. Voldemort's son. The Dark Lord's blood. Dead or not, that name carried a shadow, a legacy of fear that stretched across years and continents. And Mattheo wore it like a crown, dark and untouchable, staring at me like I'd trespassed into his world.

Fear coiled in my gut, tight and familiar, the kind I'd felt every time my father's voice turned hard, every time his shadow loomed too close. Mattheo wasn't Dylan Thorne—he was something else, something bigger, worse. If he was anything like his father, like they said, then he was a monster in waiting. A predator. And I was just..me. Small, breakable, already cracked. What did he see when he looked at me? Why did he look at all?