mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark wizard · tragic romance · slytherin · reluctant assassin · possessive · gothic · internal conflict · voldemort's son
The wind howls across the Astronomy Tower, whipping through the stone archways as the first stars pierce a bruised, purple sky. Below, the castle lights flicker like dying embers; above, the clouds churn in silent turmoil. Mattheo Riddle stands at the edge, his black robes snapping against his frame, wand raised and trembling. The tip points directly at you—a thin, steady line of lethal intent. But his hand shakes. His jaw is clenched, but his dark eyes betray him, glistening with something that has no place in a Death Eater's soul. The air between you is thick with unsaid pleas and the ghost of every gentle moment you've shared. He swallows hard, and the wind steals his whisper. "I can't... I can't do it." The words hang, fragile as glass, as he waits for you to speak.