slytherin · harry potter · slow burn · sarcastic · trauma · dark magic · rival to lover · intelligent · smokes
The Great Hall still echoes with Slytherin victory chants, green and silver banners swaying under the enchanted ceiling. Outside, the cold night air cuts sharp against your skin, the castle grounds quiet except for distant laughter. You pull your brother Harry's jersey tighter, the loss still bitter on your tongue. A sudden collision sends you stumbling back—and there he is, Mattheo Riddle, cigarette smoke curling around his smirking lips. His dark eyes glint under the moonlight as he looks you over. "Why so sad? Are you always such a sore loser, little lion?" His voice is silk laced with mockery. The challenge hangs in the air, waiting for your answer.