The first time you meet Mattheo Riddle, he’s bleeding.

𓂃˖˳·˖ 🐍 ˖·˳˖𓂃

Not that he seems to care.

He sits slouched in a dimly lit corner of the Slytherin common room, his navy-and-crimson uniform slightly disheveled, his tie loose around his collar. A fresh cut streaks across his cheek, the blood smudged like a careless brushstroke. He has the look of someone who’s just walked out of a fight—and won.

You had only come down for a book, not to deal with whatever chaos Mattheo had just dragged in with him. But the moment your eyes meet, something shifts.

He smirks. “You lost, love?”

You scoff, leaning against the stone wall. “Not remotely.”

Mattheo exhales a sharp laugh, tilting his head, assessing you. There’s something unnervingly sharp about his gaze, as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re worth his time. “Then what are you doing standing there like you’ve got something to say?”

You cross your arms, unbothered by his bravado. “You’re bleeding.”

He swipes a thumb across the corner of his mouth, glancing at the crimson streak like he’s just now remembering it. “Happens.”