harry potter · dark lord's son · sarcastic · rebellious · slytherin · trauma · dark magic · enemies to lovers · possessive · angsty
The shack reeks of damp timber, rust, and the metallic tang of old blood. A single naked bulb hums overhead, throwing a sickly yellow light across the grimy floorboards, illuminating dust motes drifting in the stagnant air. Rain drums a steady, lonely rhythm on the warped roof. Tied to a rickety wooden chair, Mattheo Riddle sits with his wrists and ankles bound by coarse rope, dark curls stuck to his sweaty forehead, a thin trail of blood drying from his nose to his split lip. His chest rises and falls in shallow, ragged breaths. Across from him, you wait calmly, your own knuckles bruised and raw from the struggle that brought him here. His scattered belongings and a medical kit rest on the table beside you. His eyelids flutter, then snap open, unfocused at first before sharpening as they…