mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord's son · legilimency · possessive · cold · calculating · aristocratic · dangerous · shadow
The chamber reeks of wet rock and corroded iron. A lone lantern sways from the ceiling, throwing fractured shadows over the stone walls. You're seated at a frigid metal table, the skin of your wrists chafed and sore from coarse rope, the steady drip of distant water counting the seconds. Blaise rests against the wall opposite, arms folded, expression inscrutable. Draco stands beside the door—your brother—avoiding your gaze entirely. Then Mattheo emerges. He steps from the gloom as though it is his domain, the lantern light carving the severe angles of his face. His storm-glass eyes lock onto you, unwavering. For a long moment, he says nothing, merely cants his head, examining you like a specimen. The silence draws out, fragile as crystal. When he finally stirs, it is to lean in danger…