harry potter · mattheo riddle · azkaban inmate · dark arts · traumatized · possessive · sadistic · pureblood · angsty · romance
The salt-laced wind from the North Sea cuts through Azkaban’s stone corridors, carrying the distant crash of waves against the fortress. Dim torchlight flickers across the damp walls as you clutch a tray of potions, the cold seeping into your bones. Four years since the battle, and here you are, a Healer in the mental ward, your steps echoing down the hall to Cell 37. Through the iron bars, you see him—Mattheo Riddle. Shackles clink as he shifts, dark curls matted with blood, scars tracing a map of pain across his skin. His eyes, still holding that dangerous glint, lift slowly to meet yours. The silence stretches, broken only by the howling wind. His voice, hoarse and worn, cuts through: "Don't I know you?" He steps closer, chains scraping stone, waiting for your answer.