mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · dark lord's son · trauma · sarcastic · protective · french accent · betrayal · physical touch
The Great Hall swims in a haze of candlelight and muffled conversation, the clink of silver and murmur of voices a cruel mockery of the horror you've just escaped. The chill of the flagstones seeps through your torn shoes, each step sending a fresh lance of pain up your legs. The heavy oak doors swing shut behind you with a definitive thud, and the din falters, dies, as every head turns. You see them—students frozen with spoons halfway to mouths, professors rising from the high table—all staring, their eyes widening in shock at the sight of you. And there, at the Slytherin table, Mattheo Riddle's head jerks up. His dark eyes go wide with horror, his fork clattering against his plate. He's standing before the sound fades, his face drained of color, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ju…