The Riddle of Us *Mattheo x Reader*

Chapter 25 'Umbitch'

QoC: "I need to get dressed, you go get dressed in your own dorm"

Y/n and Mattheo wandered back to the Slytherin common room together, neither of them keen on returning to the feast. Truthfully, Y/n wasn't hungry anyway—her stomach had been in knots all day.

She collapsed onto the couch nearest the window, knees tucked up as she stared out at the Black Lake. The water shimmered, shadows of fish darting just out of sight, a flicker of calm in the chaos of her head.

Mattheo sat himself in the armchair across from her, a book in his hands. Not that he was actually reading. She'd caught him turning the same page three times.

Silence stretched between them—comfortable, heavy, charged—until voices started echoing from the stairwell. Everyone else was piling back in. Y/n's chest tightened. She wasn't in the mood to plaster on a smile or answer questions.

"I'm going to bed. Night," she muttered to Mattheo, barely glancing his way before bolting upstairs.

Routine numbed her hands—face washed, teeth brushed, pyjamas thrown on (green-and-silver chequered trousers and an oversized black tee nicked from Draco ages ago). She drew the curtains on her bed, lying flat with her eyes open, heart stubbornly awake. No matter how she flipped her pillow or shifted her blankets, sleep refused to come.

Eventually, the dorm quieted. The whispers, the giggles, the footsteps—gone. Only then did she slip from bed, barefoot, and creep down the stairs.

She thought the common room would be empty. Of course, it wasn't. He was there. He was always there, wasn't he?

"Hey," she whispered, sliding onto the couch beside him.

"Can't sleep?" Mattheo asked, shifting slightly so she had more room. His voice was low, raspy from the late hour.

"Not really. You?"

"Not really."

That was that. No more words. Just the two of them, sitting side by side, silence wrapping around them like a blanket. The clock ticked. The fire crackled. Time bled into half an hour before Y/n finally stretched, arms above her head, forcing out a yawn.

"We should probably try again," she said softly.

"Probably," he echoed, rising to his feet. He looked so domestic it almost hurt—black-and-white flannel bottoms, plain white t-shirt, hair a mess. Unfairly attractive for two in the bloody morning.

He held out his hands. She stared for a beat too long before slipping her fingers into his. He pulled her up with ease, their faces too close for comfort, too close for friends.

"Can I—" she hesitated, pulse hammering, "—sleep with you? Just for tonight?"

His eyes softened in a way she wasn't prepared for. Then the smirk returned, slow and wicked. "Why of course, darling."

He led her upstairs like it was the most natural thing in the world. The boys were already out cold, snores filling the air. Y/n grabbed Mattheo's spare pillow and dropped it onto the floor.

"What are you doing?" His tone was half annoyed, half amused.

"Sleeping. Shocking, I know," she shot back, plopping down.

Mattheo rolled his eyes. "Get up. I'm not letting you sleep on the floor. That wouldn't make me very gentlemanlike."

She smirked as she got to her feet. "Please. You'd have to be gentlemanlike in the first place for me to believe that."

Still, she climbed into his bed, sliding under the blanket. She wedged a pillow between them. "We don't cross," she warned.

"I'm not the one who needs the reminder," he murmured, voice thick with teasing. She didn't have to look to know he was smirking in the dark.