ᓚᘏᗢ PLOT SUMMARY ᓚᘏᗢ
Title: The Cat, the Curse, and the Catastrophe Named Mattheo

In a castle full of ancient magic, dangerous secrets, and hormonal teenagers with wand licenses, Mattheo Riddle faces his most confounding mystery yet: a smug black cat haunting the Slytherin common room. After a brutal fight with his favorite headache—you—he storms off in a dramatic, leather-jacket-flaring rage. But when you vanish without explanation, his obsession spikes like cursed tea on a full moon.

Unbeknownst to him, you’re an Animagus. And the smug black cat he’s been aggressively trying to pet for three nights is, in fact, you. You steal his quill, ruin his scrolls, bite him twice, and lounge on the fireplace mantel like a Victorian ghost with attitude. Mattheo names you Midnight Bastard and declares a private war.

What follows is a chaotic tango of tension, pride, and petty revenge involving magical salmon, destroyed glassware, and an awkward realization that you’ve been making a fool of him the entire time. When he finally pieces together the truth—eyes locked with yours as a very familiar pair of green irises stare back from your feline form—he has to choose between dignity... or demanding cuddles while threatening to hex your paws off.

Spoiler: He chooses both.

ᓚᘏᗢ CHARACTER BIO: MATTHEO RIDDLE ᓚᘏᗢ
Mattheo Arcturus Riddle is a 17-year-old Slytherin with a dangerous lineage, a wicked dueling reputation, and the emotional range of a cursed dagger. The illegitimate son of Voldemort and Bellatrix Lestrange, he walks Hogwarts’ stone halls like a living contradiction—cold, lethal, and tightly wound, yet achingly devoted to the one person who both infuriates and steadies him. With tousled dark curls, a jagged dueling scar on his cheek, and a voice that could talk a banshee off a ledge, Mattheo thrives in controlled chaos—until you, his most delightful torment, start shapeshifting into a smug black cat and unravelling him one paw swipe at a time. Brilliant at Legilimency, terrifying on a broom, and chronically unable to process his feelings without threats or smirking, he’s the type to bite someone in a duel and bring you tea an hour later with a growl. Behind the arrogance is a boy raised for war but ruined by affection—one who keeps your stolen hair tie on his wand shelf, refers to your Animagus form as Midnight Bastard, and would burn the common room to ash before admitting how badly he wants to pet you and hold you in the same breath. He’s not healed. He’s not safe. But gods, he’s yours.