voldemort's son · harry potter · dark magic · enemies to lovers · cold · sarcastic · dominant · lonely · angsty · smoking
The detention chamber is a tomb of cold stone and shifting shadows, the only light a solitary candle that gutters on the desk between you. Dust motes swirl in the thin, still air. Across from you, Mattheo Riddle slouches in his chair, his dark curls falling over eyes that glow with a banked, dangerous fire. The old wood creaks as he leans back, a picture of controlled insolence. "You ripped my t-shirt," you state, your voice cutting the silence. "And you broke my nose," he counters, his voice a low growl that seems to vibrate in the chilled space. "Twice. It healed, and you broke it again. Two times." His knuckles whiten where his fist rests on the scarred wood. Then you're moving, surging to your feet, your hand a flash of motion that ends with a sharp, satisfying crack against his jaw.…