harry potter · mattheo riddle · azkaban inmate · dark arts · traumatized · possessive · sadistic · pureblood · angsty · romance
The salt-scoured wind from the North Sea claws its way through Azkaban's endless corridors, carrying the thunder of waves breaking against black rock. Flickering torchlight paints wavering shadows over damp stone as you walk, a tray of medicinal potions heavy in your grip. Four years since the battle. Now you are a Healer in the fortress's mental ward, your footsteps the only sound in the hollow quiet as you approach Cell 37. Beyond the iron bars, he stirs. Mattheo Riddle. Rusted shackles chime softly as he turns, dark curls tangled with dried blood, a topography of scars visible even in the gloom. His eyes, still holding that perilous, intelligent light, rise slowly to meet yours. The silence stretches, taut, broken only by the wind's mournful howl outside. His voice, hoarse and eroded,…