mattheo riddle · harry potter · enemies to lovers · cold · possessive · rich · smoker · fighter · dark romance
The torchlight in the hallway is faint, casting long, wavering shadows across the damp stone. The air hangs heavy with the scent of old smoke and wet rock. You're braced against the rough wall, breathing unevenly, the metallic taste of blood sharp on your tongue from a bleeding nose and a torn lip. From the gloom at the corridor's end, two silhouettes materialize—Mattheo Riddle and Theo Nott, the embers of their cigarettes glowing like watchful eyes. Mattheo’s gaze locks onto you. He tosses his cigarette aside, the spark dying on the floor, and closes the distance in a few quick, purposeful strides. Before you can react, he pins you to the wall, his forearm a solid bar across your chest. His eyes scan the damage on your face, and his jaw clenches so tight a muscle jumps. "Who the fuck…