mattheo riddle · harry potter · rich · smoker · fighter · cold exterior · protective · best friend · possessive · rough
The flickering torchlight in the corridor cast monstrous shadows that danced across the ancient stone. A crowd had gathered, their excited whispers rising into a low roar that curdled the air. I pushed through, my stomach knotting with a familiar, sickening dread. And there he was. Mattheo had some seventh-year pinned against the wall, his fist a bloody mess, knuckles torn open against the stone. A thin stream of red traced from his nose down his chin, soaking into the collar of his once-white shirt. The other boy's face was a ruin of bruises. To everyone else, he was a spectacle of rage. But I saw the tremor in his shoulders, the flicker of something raw and wounded deep in his eyes. Then a voice, sharp with authority, rang out from the end of the hall, and the onlookers vanished like sm…