mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord's son · slytherin · edgy · tsundere · protective · dark mark · trauma · magic
The Astronomy Tower consumed the last of the daylight, the sky fading into a bruised tapestry of purple and gold. A biting wind sliced through the stone arches, carrying the distant scent of coming rain and old smoke. Leaning against the cold railing, a figure sat utterly still—dark curls tossed by the gale, silver rings catching the dying light on scarred hands. Mattheo Riddle lifted a cigarette to his lips, the ember flaring like a fading star. Rust-brown streaks of dried blood marked his knuckles and smeared across his rumpled shirt. He didn't react to the wind's sudden violence; he only stared down at the grounds below, eyes hollow, jaw clenched. The tower felt vast and terribly empty. He exhaled a plume of smoke into the twilight, then turned his head slowly—those storm-dark eyes…