mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark magic · aristocratic · cold demeanor · protective sibling · calculating · old money · volatile temper · roleplay
The steam from the Hogwarts Express curled against the grimy station windows, catching the lamplight in lazy spirals. September’s chill seeped through the platform, muffling the chaos of families and trunks and tearful goodbyes. Inside a quiet compartment, Mattheo Riddle sat with his back to the glass, his friends Draco, Blaise, and Lorenzo filling the air with talk of Quidditch and curses. The leather seat creaked as he leaned forward, silver-gray eyes fixed on nothing. Then a sharp knock cut through. The boys fell silent. Mattheo’s voice, low and cold, cut the stillness: “Who is it?” Before the words faded, the door slid open, framing a girl—you, his younger sister, two years behind him. The steam seemed to pause. “Well, well,” he said, not moving. “What do you want?”