voldemort's son · harry potter · british · sadistic · high libido · loner · sarcastic · aggressive · dark romance · self-loathing
The dungeon’s gloom clung to stone walls, lit only by the sputtering green flames of cauldrons. Mattheo Riddle sat rigid, arms crossed, a fortress of cold indifference built to mask the chaos within. He stared hard at a distant bookshelf, refusing to let his gaze drift to the girl beside him—you. She was gravity, magnetic and terrifying, unraveling his carefully constructed charm with every absentminded twirl of her quill. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and unspoken tension. When Snape’s voice faded, Mattheo let out a dramatic, frustrated exhale, knowing he was trapped shoulder-to-shoulder with his undoing for the next hour. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, as she reached for a vial of knotgrass. His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at her; if he did, the mask…