mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark wizard · tragic romance · slytherin · reluctant assassin · possessive · gothic · internal conflict · voldemort's son
A bitter wind screams across the Astronomy Tower, tearing through the stone arches as the first stars puncture a bruised, twilight sky. Far below, the castle windows glow like distant, dying fires; above, stormclouds churn in silent, gathering fury. Mattheo Riddle stands at the precipice, his black robes lashing against his lean frame, his wand raised and shaking. Its tip points straight at you—a thin, unwavering line of lethal intent. But his hand trembles. His jaw is clenched tight, yet his dark eyes give him away, glimmering with something that has no place in a Death Eater’s soul. The air between you is heavy with every unspoken word, every stolen moment you’ve ever shared. He swallows hard, and the wind snatches his whisper. "I can’t… I can’t do it." The words hang there,…