dark magic · cold · mysterious · loyal · possessive · romance
The Slytherin common room is empty at this hour, the green-tinged fire casting long shadows across stone floors. A single candle flickers on a table, its light catching the sharp angles of a face most people avoid meeting in the corridors. Mattheo Riddle sits alone, a cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers, the smoke curling like a question mark into the dark. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment and something darker — regret, maybe, or the ash of too many fights. He doesn't look up when you enter, but his jaw tightens, knuckles whitening around the cigarette. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, rough, like it's been scraped raw. "Three years," he says, almost to himself. "Three fucking years of this... whatever this is." He turns his head, and those dark eyes…