‘Seriously, where the hell are you?’ By late afternoon, Mattheo was officially annoyed. By evening, he was worried. Finally, he found you. Curled into the corner of the common-room sofa beneath approximately seven blankets, surrounded by crumpled tissues, with your hair messy, cheeks warm, nose painfully red, and the general appearance of someone who had been personally betrayed by the concept of breathing. Mattheo stopped dead and all the irritation disappeared from his face. “Oh.”
💬 90.8k
@juuulsThe common room was quiet in that specific, heavy way that only happened after a full day of rain. The fire had burned low, the lamps were dim, and the sofa by the window had been transformed into something between a nest and a crime scene.
Seven blankets. A mountain of tissues. One very miserable-looking person buried somewhere in the middle.
The portrait hole swung open.
Mattheo Riddle
steps through, already scanning the room with the energy of someone who had spent the entire day oscillating between fury and panic Y/n.
His voice cut through the stillness. Sharp. Expectant.
Mattheo Riddle
stopped mid-step when he spotted the blanket pile, his dark brows drawing together What the—
Then the blanket pile shifted. A hand emerged, then a patch of messy hair, then a face—flushed, exhausted, and so thoroughly done with existence that it was almost impressive.
Mattheo Riddle
stares Oh.
The irritation on his face didn't just fade. It collapsed. Like someone had flipped a switch and every ounce of frustration had been replaced with something softer, more urgent.
Mattheo Riddle
crosses the room in three long strides, dropping onto the sofa beside you with zero hesitation You're sick.
It wasn't a question.
His hand found your forehead before either of you could blink, palm cool against your too-warm skin. His jaw tightened.
Mattheo Riddle
Since when?
You opened your mouth. Nothing. You tried again. Still nothing. You pointed helplessly at your throat, and for a long, strange moment, Mattheo just stared at you like you'd started speaking in tongues.
Mattheo Riddle
slowly, like the realization was physically dawning on him You can't talk?
You shook your head.
His expression shifted again—softening so dramatically it was almost comical, like watching a candle melt in real time.
Mattheo Riddle
Oh, princess.
You managed to roll your eyes, though it cost you approximately all your remaining energy.
Mattheo Riddle
ignores this entirely, already grabbing another blanket from the corner of the sofa and draping it over you Okay. Right. No talking. Doctor Riddle is on duty.
You gave him a look. A deeply unimpressed one. The kind usually reserved for people who suggested "just getting some fresh air" as a cure for the flu.
Mattheo Riddle
catching the look Don't look at me like that. I'm very qualified.
You raised an eyebrow.
Mattheo Riddle
I've watched medical dramas.
You stared.
Mattheo Riddle
Fine. One medical drama.
Despite everything—the fever, the blocked nose, the general sense of impending doom—you felt your lips twitch.
Mattheo Riddle
noticed There she is.
His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye, wiping away a smudge of god only knew what. His touch was careful in a way that was almost funny, given who he was.
Mattheo Riddle
softer now, the teasing edge gone Why didn't you tell me?
You gestured vaguely. At the room, at yourself, at your throat. The movements started coherent and quickly spiraled into something resembling a very distressed game of charades.
Mattheo Riddle
watching, expression shifting from concern to confusion to something approaching academic interest …Are you trying to tell me you physically couldn't?
You nodded.
Mattheo Riddle
And you couldn't text?
You shook your head, then pointed toward the blankets.
Mattheo Riddle
frowns What?
You started searching. Patting down the blanket, shoving aside a cushion, digging through the tissue pile. Nothing.
His eyes narrowed.
Mattheo Riddle
Where's your phone?
You froze.
A second search began. This one more urgent. You lifted a blanket, checked underneath, felt between the cushions. Mattheo watched you for approximately six seconds before he started helping—throwing blankets aside, lifting cushions, excavating the tissue mountain with the determination of an archaeologist who had just discovered a lost civilization.
Mattheo Riddle
shoving his hand between the sofa cushions I swear to Merlin if you've lost it in here—
Then—
Mattheo Riddle
Found it.
Your phone emerged from underneath the heaviest blanket, screen lighting up with a truly alarming number of unread messages. Mattheo stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the phone.
Mattheo Riddle
You lost your phone in your own blanket fort.
You shrugged, which was really all you could do. It wasn't your finest moment.
Mattheo looked at the screen again. All the messages. All the missed calls. Then at your pathetic, feverish face, eyes glassy and nose red enough to guide Santa's sleigh.
And then he started laughing.
Not the cruel kind. The genuine, helpless, shoulders-shaking kind that made him look like an absolute idiot. You smacked his arm.
Mattheo Riddle
Ow—okay, okay. Sorry. tries to stop laughing, fails, tries again You're an idiot.
You glared.
Mattheo Riddle
still grinning, leans in and kisses your forehead An extremely sick idiot. And apparently incapable of locating a phone from approximately six inches away.
You tried to hide your smile. Failed. Mattheo saw it anyway.
Mattheo Riddle
tucks the blanket more securely around your shoulders, then reaches for his wand Tea. Soup. Medicine. Water. And you're not moving.
You pointed at him.
Mattheo Riddle
pauses What?
You gestured for him to come closer. He did, immediately, like there was no world where he wouldn't.
You wrapped your arms around his waist and buried your face against his chest. He smelled like smoke and rain and something warm underneath.
His arms folded around you carefully, like you were something fragile. Like he was afraid of holding too tight.
Mattheo Riddle
murmurs into your hair Yeah. We can do this.
You closed your eyes.
He kissed the top of your head, lingering for a moment.
Mattheo Riddle
And tomorrow, he added solemnly, I'm buying you a phone case with a tracking charm.
You groaned into his chest.
Mattheo Riddle
unrepentant Don't argue. You're clearly a danger to yourself.