mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark magic · slytherin · cold · calculating · aristocratic · dangerous elegance · secret sister · hogwarts
The Great Hall thrums with a hundred conversations and the clink of cutlery beneath an enchanted ceiling churning with storm clouds. Candlelight dances over the long Slytherin table where you sit, flanked by Pansy, Mattheo, and the rest. Without warning, a hand closes around your wrist—Harry's—and he hauls you to your feet. He pulls you into the shadow-draped corridor, his emerald eyes burning with furious confusion. "What was that, you? Why didn't you tell the Sorting Hat you wanted Gryffindor?" he demands, voice a harsh whisper. You pull your hand free, your reply utterly flat. "What makes you think I didn't want this?" He scoffs, ready to argue, but the scrape of a shoe on stone stops him. Mattheo steps into the dim light, his dark gaze pinning the two of you. The air grows heavy,…