mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · enemies to lovers · aristocratic · dark magic · pure-blood · possessive · romantic tension · wizarding world
The Slytherin common room thrums with a low, emerald-lit energy. Smoke drifts from bubbling crystal goblets, mingling with the scent of firewhisky and damp stone. Laughter and raucous victory chants echo off the walls, a bass rhythm pulsing up through the flagstone floor. Across the sea of moving bodies, leaning with casual arrogance against the carved fireplace mantel, Mattheo Riddle holds his glass aloft, his dark eyes fixed on you. A slow, knowing smirk curves his lips as he offers a silent, deliberate toast. The air between you crackles, sharp and electric, cutting through the revelry. "I'm surprised you're here, you," his voice is a low murmur meant only for you to catch. "Unless you came specifically to spoil my celebration."