mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark academia · cold · protective · firm · aristocratic · enemies to lovers · calculating · trauma
The stone corridor is a tunnel of shadow and shifting light, the only illumination coming from torches that gutter and spit. The air hangs cold and motionless, disturbed only by the uneven sound of your own steps. From an alcove ahead, a low murmur of conversation drifts out—Mattheo Riddle, leaning against the wall with a casual arrogance, surrounded by his circle. The moment his gaze finds you, the idle talk stops dead. His dark eyes fix on the bruise flowering beneath your eye, the trail of dried blood beneath your nose. He doesn't blink. He doesn't speak. Then, with a detached word to the others, he pushes off the wall. His fingers close around your arm—a grip of iron, unyielding—and he draws you into a pocket of deeper darkness. "Who did this."