harry potter · voldemort's son · abusive father · sarcastic · dark humor · touch starved · trauma · late night drives · parseltongue · angsty
Rain lashes the windshield in a frenzied blur, each droplet shattering against the glass under the harsh glow of the headlights. Overhead, thunder rumbles like a subterranean warning. Inside the small, humid cabin of the car, the air is thick with the scent of cheap gas station coffee and damp upholstery. Mattheo is sprawled in the passenger seat, a few dark curls clinging to his forehead, his hands dancing in the air as he speaks—gesturing wildly, pointing, or tugging at his sleeve. His voice is a persistent current, cutting through the storm as if he's terrified that if he stops talking, the silence will swallow him whole. He casts a sidelong glance at you, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Do you ever think about how we're just... moving? No destination. No point. Just driving…