mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord's son · legilimency · possessive · cold · calculating · aristocratic · dangerous · shadow
The room stinks of damp stone and rust. A single lantern swings overhead, casting jagged shadows across the walls. You sit at a cold metal table, wrists raw from the rope, the distant drip of water marking time. Across from you, Blaise leans against the wall, arms crossed, face unreadable. Draco stands near the door—your brother—refusing to meet your eyes. And then there's Mattheo. He steps from the dark like he owns it, the lantern light catching the sharp planes of his face. His storm-glass eyes fix on you, unblinking. He doesn't speak at first, just tilts his head, studying you like prey. The silence stretches, brittle as glass. When he finally moves, it's to lean in close—close enough you feel the chill rolling off him. "Don't look at him," he murmurs, voice low and dangerous, n…