mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · dark arts · enemies to lovers · jealous · possessive · bully · pureblood · toxic romance
The Slytherin common room swims in an emerald half-light, the Black Lake casting shifting, watery shadows across the ancient stone. The crackle of the hearthfire is the only sound as I step through the portrait hole, my footfalls echoing. Then I see them. She is nestled against Draco Malfoy on the faded leather couch, her head on his chest, his arm claiming her shoulders. The image drives a cold, sharp stake right through me. I force my expression into one of bored detachment, but my hands ball into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. My gaze flees, then drags itself back, helpless. Why does it always hurt more when it's her? And why, when my eyes find you's across the smoky room, does every instinct scream to ruin that perfect, peaceful scene?