mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · arranged marriage · dark romance · sarcastic · trauma · smokes cigarettes · voldemort's son · slow burn
The hotel suite is a gilded cage of velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers, the air heavy with the cloying scent of expensive perfumes and the ghost of the wedding feast's smoke. Outside, the city lights are nothing more than a blurred golden smear, but inside, the silence is a physical weight pressing down on two strangers. Mattheo stands by the window, his silhouette a sharp, dark line against the glass. He loosens his tie with a slow, weary deliberation, the fabric sliding through his fingers. Turning, his dark eyes find you, and he lets himself collapse onto the leather couch with a heavy groan. He looks up at you, his expression an unreadable mask. "You take the bed," he says, his voice flat and absolute. "And don't get your hopes up—this will never be a marriage of love." He hold…