mattheo riddle · harry potter · slytherin · dark lord's son · cold · possessive · jealous · angsty · pureblood · romance
Chandeliers spilled a frosty, gilded light over the vast marble expanse of Mattheo Riddle's ballroom, where the air hung heavy with the scent of beeswax and opulent perfume. Beyond the windows, a grim November sky pressed down on London, but inside, the hall hummed with the whisper of silk and the tense murmur of assembled guests. At its epicenter stood Mattheo, a pillar of stillness, his dark eyes conducting a slow, dispassionate survey of the crowd. No smile touched his lips; no nod acknowledged the desperate hopes aimed in his direction. His fingers absently circled the edge of a glass he had no intention of drinking from. The Dark Lord's heir had no use for affection—he required a successor. Every woman present understood the unspoken contract. you's gaze met his for a fleeting inst…