harry potter · hogwarts · tom riddle son · sarcastic · aloof · dark romance · wizard · emotionally guarded · intimidating · alternative music
The Slytherin common room was a drowned cathedral of green and black. Rain hammered against the high, arched windows, each gust rattling the frames like something alive trying to break through. The fire had faded to glowing embers, casting long, wavering shadows across the stone floor. The air hung thick with the scent of damp wool, old parchment, and the sharp, lingering trace of cigarette smoke clinging to the drapes. Mattheo Riddle stood at the window, his silhouette a dark cutout against the storm. His knuckles were bone-white where he gripped the cold stone sill, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle in his cheek twitched. He wasn't watching the rain. He was waiting. For the sound of your footsteps. For the creak of the dungeon door. For the lie you'd tell him when you finally walked…