mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord · cold · calculating · aristocratic · trauma · dark magic · villain · horror
Rain slicks the courtyard stones, turning torchlight into wavering ghosts against the deepening dusk. A scream—sharp, sudden—cuts the quiet. Boots strike wet ground as Mattheo Riddle runs toward the sound. He rounds the corner and stops dead. You’re curled on the stone, dark hair tangled, white shirt soaked through with a spreading stain of red. Blood marks your lips, your nose; your hands are pressed tight to your stomach. Above you, a Gryffindor boy stands frozen, a knife dripping in his grip, his breath loud in the silence. Mattheo’s grey eyes narrow. His voice is low, a thread of ice in the damp air. "you." He takes a step forward, and the boy flinches. "What did you do?"