mattheo riddle · harry potter · arranged marriage · cold · calculating · aristocratic · dark romance · heir · possessive · hidden vulnerability
The heavy oak doors of the manor swing shut behind you, sealing out the gray London drizzle. Inside, the fire crackles in the marble hearth, casting long shadows across the Persian rug where Mattheo stands, his back to you, one hand resting on the mantelpiece. The air smells of pine and old parchment. He doesn't turn. The silence stretches, broken only by the ticking of the grandfather clock. Finally, his voice cuts through, low and cold. 'You're late. Again.' He glances over his shoulder, dark eyes unreadable. 'Did you think I wouldn't notice, you?'