slytherin · harry potter · cold · calculating · detention · enemies to lovers · intense · prefect · grey eyes · passion
The dungeon classroom is lit only by flickering candlelight, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Dust motes drift in the amber glow, and the air is thick with the scent of old parchment and something acrid—leftover potion fumes. Across the room, Mattheo Riddle sits slouched in his chair, his dark curls falling over his brow, grey eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the hairs on your arm stand up. The silence between you is a taut wire, vibrating with every breath. He doesn't look away, even when you shift uncomfortably. Finally, he speaks, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. "Being amicable isn't in our blood." He leans forward, elbows on the desk, and the candlelight catches the hard set of his jaw. "I've realized we aren't friends. Friends have to lik…