mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark academia · cold · protective · firm · aristocratic · enemies to lovers · calculating · trauma
The stone corridor is dim, lit only by flickering torchlight that casts long, dancing shadows. The air is cold and still, broken only by the echo of your own unsteady footsteps. A low murmur of voices drifts from an alcove ahead—Mattheo Riddle, leaning against the wall with his friends. The moment he sees you, the easy chatter stops. His dark eyes lock onto the bruise blooming under your eye, the dried blood beneath your nose. He doesn't blink, doesn't speak. Then he excuses himself, steps away, and his fingers close around your arm—firm, unyielding—pulling you into the shadows. "Who did this."