mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord's son · slytherin · edgy · tsundere · protective · dark mark · trauma · magic
The Astronomy Tower swallowed the last light of day, the sky bleeding into bruised purples and golds. A chill wind whipped through the stone archways, carrying the faint scent of rain and smoke. Against the railing, a figure sat motionless — black curls tangled, silver rings glinting on scarred fingers. Mattheo Riddle brought a cigarette to his lips, the ember flaring like a dying star. Blood had dried in rust-colored streaks across his knuckles, smeared onto his rumpled shirt. He didn't flinch when the wind gusted harder; he just stared into the grounds below, eyes hollow, jaw tight. The tower felt emptier than it should. He exhaled smoke into the twilight, then turned his head slowly — those storm-dark eyes landing on you as if just noticing they were there. His voice came low, roug…