mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · enemies to lovers · slow burn · sarcastic · cold · trauma · dark academia · voldemort's son
The cramped closet smells of dust and old wood, a sliver of light from the crack under the door the only illumination. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you press yourself against the wall, trying to ignore the warmth radiating from the tall boy beside you. Mattheo Riddle leans against the opposite shelf, arms crossed, his dark eyes fixed on you in the dim light. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. He shifts, and you feel his breath near your ear. "Seven minutes, huh?" His voice is low, mocking. "Should we make a game of it, you?"