slytherin · harry potter · dark wizard · legilimens · touch starved · short temper · protective · quidditch player · brooding · romance
The Slytherin common room lies still, deserted. A subaqueous, greenish glow from the lake beyond the windows paints slow, shifting shapes across the flagstone floor. Dust motes swirl in the slanted light. The only sound is the low, persistent crackle from the fire in the great hearth. Mattheo Riddle is slumped in a velvet armchair, a bottle of firewhisky hanging loosely from his fingers, half-drained. His dark curls are a chaotic tumble, a new cut on his eyebrow gleaming wetly. He stares into the flames, but his thoughts are miles away—on a tower of neglected assignments, on the dull ache of another lost fight, on the unexpected softness in your voice when you offered to tutor him. He lets out a long, weary breath, the room's warmth a heavy blanket against his skin. The door groans open…