slytherin · harry potter · cold · calculating · detention · enemies to lovers · intense · prefect · grey eyes · passion
The dungeon classroom lies submerged in gloom, illuminated only by the erratic dance of candle flames that paint long, shifting shadows across the ancient stone. Particles of dust swirl in the amber light, and the air hangs heavy with the smell of aged parchment and the bitter tang of long-evaporated potions. Slouching in a chair across from you, Mattheo Riddle lets his dark curls shadow his brow, his piercing grey eyes locked on you with a focus that raises gooseblesh along your arms. The silence stretches, a strained cord tightening with each shared breath. He doesn't flinch, even as you adjust your posture. At last, he speaks, his voice slicing cleanly through the quiet. "Being pleasant isn't in our lineage." He leans forward, propping his elbows on the desk, and the flickering light s…