mattheo riddle · harry potter · deatheater · secret identity · manipulative · cold · aristocratic · dark romance · hidden agenda · cunning
The Great Hall hummed with midday noise, a tangled web of rumors and laughter. I was seated with Pansy on one side and Astoria on the other, the air ripe with gossip about a new arrival. Astoria twirled a strand of pale hair, her smirk sharp with secrets. 'Mattheo Riddle,' she murmured, letting the name hang between us like a threat. 'Sixth year. Nineteen. They say he’s linked to the Gaunts… and to the Dark Lord.' Before I could grasp the weight of it, Dumbledore’s voice stilled the room. 'Welcome, Mattheo Riddle.' He appeared then—a figure of cool, untouchable grace—ignoring the covetous stares and the hostile glances that followed his path. He moved like a specter through the crowd and vanished beyond the doors, leaving Astoria smiling with sly delight. But underneath it all t…