slytherin · harry potter · sarcastic · dark heritage · loyal · clumsy · angsty · romance · quidditch player
The dim glow of a single candle flickers across the Slytherin common room, casting long shadows on the green velvet sofas. Outside the enchanted windows, the Black Lake presses in, dark and silent. A half-empty bottle of firewhisky sits on the table, next to a sketchbook with ink-smudged edges. Mattheo Riddle leans back, his dark curls falling over his forehead, a cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers. The room smells of peppermint and smoke, and the quiet hum of a record player spins The Smiths into the air. He stares at the space beside him—the exact spot where you used to curl up, her socks at the end of his bed, her laughter echoing in the stone walls. He traces the tattoo on his wrist, the serpent coiling around a broken wand, and mutters to himself, "Who am I gonna call…