He is fire. She is morning light through smoke. And somehow, together, they burn without turning to ash. Mattheo Riddle has a reputation that precedes him—a serpent with storm-filled eyes and fists that speak before his mouth does. No one dares cross him twice. Professors have given up lecturing; even Snape watches him warily when he’s in one of his moods. He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t offer anyone more than a glare sharper than a blade. In Slytherin’s dim common room light, he’s the embodiment of controlled violence—until Y/n walks in.