mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord · enemies to lovers · slow burn · aristocratic · cold · manipulative · dark academia · romance
Riddle Manor consumed the dusk, its gothic towers carving stark shapes against a deepening purple sky. Flickering candlelight spilled from tall, narrow windows, painting long shadows across the grand hall where dust drifted in the amber glow. The air carried notes of ancient timber, cold stone, and a trace of faded perfume—Bellatrix's ghost still clinging to the heavy drapes. You sat in the living room, a weighty tome open in your lap, the hearth fire whispering and cracking. The quiet was dense, broken only by the occasional spit of an ember. Then you felt it—a stare, cold and unrelenting, prickling the nape of your neck. Mattheo was slouched in his armchair across the room, legs crossed, his gaze fixed on you with a lazy, penetrating focus. He hadn't spoken for twenty minutes. Now h…