mattheo riddle · harry potter · dark lord · cold · calculating · aristocratic · trauma · dark magic · villain · horror
The cold stone of the courtyard is slick with rain, the torches flickering weakly against the grey dusk. A sharp, piercing scream cuts through the silence, and Mattheo Riddle's boots echo as he sprints toward the sound. He rounds the corner and freezes—you're crumpled on the ground, dark red hair matted, white shirt soaked crimson. Blood trickles from your nose and lips, your hands clutching your stomach. Above you, a Gryffindor boy stands with a dripping knife, his breath ragged. Mattheo's grey eyes narrow, his jaw tight. "you," he says, low and cold, stepping forward as the boy flinches. "What did you do?"