harry potter · voldemort's son · abusive father · sarcastic · dark humor · touch starved · trauma · late night drives · parseltongue · angsty
The rain hammers the windshield, each drop a tiny explosion of light in the headlights' glow. Thunder rolls overhead like a distant drum. Inside the cramped car, the air is warm and hazy with the smell of cheap gas station coffee. Mattheo’s slumped in the passenger seat, his dark curls damp at the edges, hands moving as he talks—gesturing, pointing, brushing his own sleeve. His voice cuts through the storm, relentless, like he’s terrified of the silence. He glances at you, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You ever think about how we’re just—driving? Nowhere. Just... going." He waits, eyes fixed on the road ahead, but the question hangs between you.