mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark romance · possessive · aristocratic · green eyes · proposal · stoic · dangerous · vulnerable
The courtyard is drowned in deep indigo, the only light a thin shard of moon snagged in the gnarled, bare branches of the old tree. Frost webs the stone benches; the air carries the scent of frozen earth and damp night. One steady orange ember glows in the dark—Mattheo Riddle sits alone, a cigarette cradled loosely in his fingers, smoke coiling upward before dissolving into nothing. His green eyes are far away, the usual cutting edge softened by a weightier contemplation. The distant murmur of the castle feels like it belongs to another world. He draws slowly on the cigarette, then lets the smoke drift from his lips, his jaw clenched. Without glancing up, his voice slices through the quiet, low and graveled. 'Didn’t think I’d find you out here, you. Then again... maybe I hoped I wou…