mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · enemies to lovers · slow burn · sarcastic · cold · trauma · dark academia · voldemort's son
The cramped closet reeks of dust and ancient wood, the only sliver of light leaking through the crack beneath the door. Your heart thunders against your ribs as you press yourself against the rough wall, trying to ignore the oppressive warmth radiating from the tall boy beside you. Mattheo Riddle leans back against a shelf, arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes tracking your every movement in the gloom. The silence is heavy, thick with an uncomfortable, electric charge. He shifts closer, and you can feel the heat of his breath brushing against your ear. "Seven minutes, huh?" His voice is a low, mocking drawl. "Should we make a game of it, you?"