Cracks in the Dark

The cold from the dungeon stones seeped right through Mattheo Riddle’s robes. He pressed a hand to the gash on his ribs—blood slicked his fingers, dark and warm. Stupid fight. A fifth-year Hufflepuff with a grudge and a stray hex he should’ve dodged. But he couldn’t go to the hospital wing. Not now. Not with Pomfrey’s questions and the whispers that trailed him like a shadow.

He didn’t think. Just moved. Up the moving staircases, past the Fat Lady—she eyed him suspiciously but swung open when he muttered the password he’d nicked from a careless Gryffindor third-year.

The common room was empty, just embers glowing in the fireplace. And there she was—y/n Granger, curled in a worn armchair, a Transfiguration textbook on her lap. She looked up, those brown eyes sharpening with alarm.

“Riddle—what are you—you’re bleeding.”

“Observant,” he muttered, already swaying on his feet.

She was at his side in an instant, her hands surprisingly steady. “Sit. Don’t move.” Then she vanished up to her dormitory, came back with a tin of dittany and bandages. Her fingers brushed his skin as she applied the paste—he flinched. Not from pain. From the gentleness.

“Why are you helping me?” His voice came out rougher than he meant.

She didn’t look up. “Because you needed it.”

Something cracked inside him. A hairline fracture. But it was enough.

Over the next two months, that fracture widened. They never talked about that night, but the silence got heavy—loaded with meaning. Stolen glances across the Great Hall. A brush of shoulders in the corridor. Once, she left a small vial of bruise salve at his usual spot in the library. He kept it under his pillow.

He told himself it was impossible. She was Granger—friend to Potter, Weasley, the whole golden trio. She belonged to a world of righteous battles and light. He belonged to the shadow of his father’s name. Every time he saw her laughing with Harry, the distance between them felt like a chasm—carved by blood and house colors.

But he couldn’t stop looking at her.

The Quidditch match was a disaster.

Rain lashed the pitch. Slytherin was up by thirty, and all Mattheo had to do was keep his head in the game. Then Gryffindor scored. The stands erupted. y/n was on her feet, cheering with her house, her face bright and unguarded.

He missed the Quaffle. Then a Bludger. Then he crashed into a goalpost, and Gryffindor scored again.

The game ended in defeat. The Slytherin common room was cold and silent. Mattheo sat alone, a bottle of firewhisky half empty, knuckles bruised, pride in tatters. He didn’t know why he got up. Why his feet carried him through the castle, past the Fat Lady, into the warm glow of Gryffindor tower.

She was there again. Like she knew.

“Mattheo?”

He slumped against the doorframe. Firelight caught the rain in his hair, the flush of alcohol on his cheeks. “I can’t do this anymore.” Words slurred but raw.

y/n set down her book. “Do what?”

He crossed the room in three uneven steps, stopped inches from her. “This. Pretending I don’t—” He let out a bitter laugh. “I lost the match. Played like an idiot because I couldn’t stop watching you.”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

“I know what I am,” he went on, voice cracking. “A Riddle. A Slytherin. The son of a monster. But I don’t care anymore. If you’ll have me, I’ll burn every wall down. Just—please. Tell me I’m not the only one.”

Silence stretched like a held breath.

Then y/n reached up and touched his cheek. Gentle. “You’re not the only one.”

His eyes closed. His whole body trembled.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

He nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. As he turned to leave, her hand caught his—brief, warm, full of promise.

The chasm was closing.