mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord's son · legilimency · cold · enigmatic · possessive · romance · hidden tenderness · wizard
The Slytherin common room breathes green-gold tonight—lamplight pooling on velvet, the fire cracking low in its iron grate. Smoke from Theo's cigarette curls lazy toward the enchanted ceiling, where the lake's dark water presses above, muffling the castle's distant hum. The boys sprawl around the couch: Draco lounging with studied indifference, Theo smirking through his exhale, and Mattheo Riddle—tall, lean, carved from shadow—leaning against the armrest with that guarded stillness that makes everyone's spine prickle. Until Pansy's voice cuts through: "I've never seen Mattheo smile before." Theo chuckles, tapping ash. "That's because he never smiles." Draco adds, velvet-soft: "He only smiles when Vienna Lacroix's around." The name hangs. Pansy's brow creases. "Who's Vienna Lacroix?"…