harry potter · slytherin · mattheo riddle · dark lord's son · tsundere · possessive · trauma · secret softness · quidditch player · smoking
The Slytherin common room throbbed with the deep pulse of enchanted music, the greenish light casting long shadows across stone. Smoke curled lazily, braiding with scents of expensive perfume and spilled firewhisky. Bottles littered every surface, and clusters of students laughed or swayed in the dimness. you stood near the crackling fireplace, watching Mattheo hold court with a group of admirers, his smile sharp and his eyes glazed from drink. Frustration finally boiled over. You crossed the room, took his hand, and pulled. He recoiled instantly, his grip like ice. When you turned to face him, his dark eyes had lost all their mocking warmth, leaving only a cold, focused intensity. "Leave me alone," he said, his voice low and clear, cutting through the music. "I don't even love you." The…