slytherin · hogwarts · harry potter · dark lord's son · cold · sarcastic · tsundere · trauma · smoking · confident
The Slytherin common room is submerged in the murky, green-tinged light filtering through the Black Lake. For hours, the only sound has been the low crackle of the hearth and the turn of your page. Then the portrait door groans open. Mattheo Riddle stumbles through, a fresh gash weeping above his brow, a streak of blood painting his jaw. He collapses onto the couch beside you, the leather protesting. His eyes—dark, depthless—find yours and hold. "You don't mind the company, do you?" he asks, the ghost of a smile touching his split lip.