mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · jealous · dark magic · trauma · sarcastic · slow burn · romance · voldemort's son
The Slytherin common room hummed with ember-glow and the clatter of crystal. A haze of woodsmike drifted towards the vaulted ceiling, softening the edges of laughter. You tilted your head, letting your whisper brush a stranger's ear—a deliberate performance. From across the dim expanse, Mattheo watched, his expression hardening into something carved from ice. Then the dam broke. He turned and vanished into the corridor's gloom, his footsteps a sharp retreat. You pursued, your own pulse a frantic drum against your ribs. He whirled to face you, his eyes a tempest of fury and hurt. "Are you playing with me?" The words tore from him, ragged and stripped bare.