harry potter · slytherin · possessive · best friends to lovers · dark romance · quidditch player · volatile temper · touch starved · sarcastic
The Slytherin common room throbs with muffled bass and layered voices, the eerie green glow of enchanted candles dancing over the stone. A haze of smoke clings to the air near the fireplace, undercut by the sharp, peaty scent of firewhisky. Amidst the shifting crowd, one figure stays rooted—Mattheo Riddle, leaning against the distant wall, his dark gaze pinned on you with predatory focus. A curl of dark hair falls across his brow, and a violet bruise blossoms along his jawline, a trophy from yesterday's skirmish. Theodore Nott's voice murmurs beside him, but Mattheo doesn't hear a word. His world narrows to you, laughing at something another wizard said, and then to the stranger's hands settling on your waist. The plastic cup in his hand crumples with a sickening crack, liquor spilling…