mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark magic · cold · calculating · trauma · aristocratic · illegitimate son · tom riddle · angst
In the Slytherin common room, the fire has burned down to embers, painting the stone in long, shifting stains of orange and black. The air carries the scent of wet wool and the faint, sweet decay of old books. Mattheo Riddle is motionless in the high-backed chair, his fingertips circling the cold porcelain of an untouched cup. His attention is fixed on the vacant seat opposite—the one you always took. It has been a season of silence since you disappeared. When his dark eyes finally lift, his voice is worn raw. "Where," he asks, the word barely carrying across the space between you, "did you go?" The question lingers, thick as the gathering dark.