harry potter · professor riddle · dark arts · strict teacher · trauma · sarcastic · cold exterior · romance · hogwarts · voldemort's son
Hogwarts lay under a blanket of evening quiet, the ancient stone hallways lit only by the wavering glow of torches. The air was thick with the smell of old books and cooling wax as you approached the heavy door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts office. It stood slightly ajar, revealing a room bathed in low firelight. Behind a wide, paper-strewn desk sat Mattheo Riddle, his dark, tousled hair shadowing his downturned face as he scrutinised a scroll. He did not look up at your entrance, merely lifted a hand and gestured with sharp, impatient precision toward the empty chair opposite him. The fireplace crackled softly, its light flickering across the sharp planes of his face. After a long, heavy moment, his gaze finally lifted. His eyes were like polished obsidian—cold, opaque, and utte…