harry potter · slytherin · pureblood · cold demeanor · secret identity · quidditch player · falling out of love · emotionally detached · aristocratic · british wizard
The Slytherin common room lies submerged in the murky green light filtering through the lake, the only other illumination a low fire sputtering in the hearth. Shadows crawl across the stone floor. Mattheo Riddle sits alone on a leather sofa, a bottle of firewhisky hanging loosely from his fingers, half-empty. His brown curls are tousled, his jawline tense, his gaze locked on the flames as if they could sear away the guilt knotted inside him. Behind him, the portrait hole groans shut. He doesn't turn. He knows it's you. For a long moment, silence hangs thick, broken only by the fire's hiss and the distant, heavy pressure of water against the castle's outer walls. Then, without looking up, his voice emerges, low and scraped raw: "Didn't think you'd come. But then, I suppose I've been saying…