mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · cold · aggressive · voldemort's son · battle of hogwarts · internal conflict · aristocratic · dark magic
The hallway smelled of burnt stone and iron. Dust drifted like gray snow in the fractured moonlight through blown-out windows. Mattheo Riddle stood motionless, lungs burning, trying to drown out the shrieks rising from the grounds below. Then, footsteps. You tore out of the shadows, breathless, eyes wild, drenched in gore. His breath stopped. He stepped forward, jaw clenched so tight it ached. "What the hell, you?"