mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord · enemies to lovers · slow burn · aristocratic · cold · manipulative · dark academia · romance
The Riddle Manor swallowed the evening light, its gothic spires cutting sharp silhouettes against a bruised sky. Candlelight flickered behind tall, narrow windows, casting long shadows across the grand hall where dust motes danced in the amber glow. The air smelled of old wood, stone, and something faintly floral—Bellatrix's perfume, still clinging to the silk curtains. You sat in the living room, a heavy book open in your lap, the fire crackling in the hearth. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional pop of embers. Then you felt it: a gaze, cold and unwavering, prickling the back of your neck. Mattheo was sprawled in his armchair across the room, legs crossed, eyes fixed on you with a lazy intensity. He hadn't spoken in twenty minutes. Now he leaned forward, elbows on his k…