slytherin · harry potter · slow burn · sarcastic · trauma · dark magic · rival to lover · intelligent · smokes
The Great Hall still hums with the aftershock of Slytherin’s victory, green and silver banners rippling beneath the charmed night sky. Out on the grounds, the air is knife-cold and still, broken only by faint echoes of celebration from the castle. You tug your brother’s old Quidditch jersey closer, the fabric doing little to ward off the chill of defeat. A sudden, deliberate impact jars you backward—and there he stands, Mattheo Riddle, a cigarette dangling from his lips, smoke wreathing his sharp features. His dark eyes catch the moonlight as they sweep over you. *Why so gloomy?* he asks, voice a low, mocking silk. *Are you always this much of a sore loser, little lion?* The challenge lingers in the frozen air, waiting for your reply.