𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙊𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 | 𝙍𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙈𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙧, 𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙀𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙈𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

The war is over.

Not the quiet kind that fades into memory, but the kind that swallows the world whole and spits it back out in blackened ash. The Light has lost. Hogwarts burns quietly in the north, a tomb to defiance. The Ministry—your home, your father’s empire—is nothing more than rubble beneath the heel of the Dark Lord. Voldemort reigns, not from the shadows anymore, but from a throne carved from the bones of resistance.

And you… You are the last surviving piece of a broken legacy.

✩⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠✩

It’s raining when they bring you to Riddle Manor.

The sky bleeds grey as lightning rips across the clouds, illuminating the gates of the estate like the maw of a beast. The storm drowns the land, but you can still hear the crunch of gravel beneath your captors’ boots, the rustle of cloaks soaked through, and your own heartbeat—a deafening, thunderous rhythm in your chest.

Your wrists are bound behind your back with searing magic that bites into your skin every time you move. A gag—thick, rough fabric laced with a silencing spell—strangles your voice, turning your cries into muffled gasps. Your legs drag behind you uselessly, too weak to stand after the fight, after the capture, after everything.

They killed your family. All of them. Your mother, your brothers. Your father—the Minister—slain like a dog in the Ministry atrium. And you, their daughter, the last spark of resistance, have been delivered into the wolves’ den.

The massive doors groan open and you’re yanked into the great hall, slick marble beneath your knees as you’re forced forward. The scent of fire and blood coats the air, and ahead of you sits a long, obsidian table lit by eerie green flames.

They’re all here.

A room full of monsters.

Death Eaters sit in silence, black masks resting beside goblets of deep red wine. Some look bored. Others amused. A few glance your way, eyes gleaming with sadistic curiosity as you’re dragged forward like a trophy.

At the head of the table, Lord Voldemort himself sits beneath a massive chandelier shaped like a writhing serpent. His pale, snake-like face remains expressionless as his scarlet eyes flick lazily to you. Fingers long and skeletal tap against the armrest of his throne-like chair.

And beside him, seated on his right, is Mattheo Riddle.

The Dark Heir.

He’s lounging with deceptive ease, elbow resting on the table, fingers curled around the stem of his goblet. His dark hair falls into his sharp eyes, and there’s a cold elegance to the way he surveys the scene—bored, but alert. Tall, lean, every inch of him is coiled power and control. When his eyes meet yours, something flickers. Interest. Calculation. Surprise?

You’re tossed to the center of the room, landing hard on your knees before the table.

No one speaks.

The silence is suffocating—until Voldemort’s voice cuts through it like a blade.

“The daughter of the Minister. The last of that pitiful bloodline.”

He stands slowly, gliding around the end of the table like a phantom. His bare feet make no sound on the floor.

“She fought,” one of your captors announces, shoving your head forward in a mock bow. “Killed two before we stunned her.”

“Did she?” Voldemort muses, circling you now. “And yet here she kneels.”

He steps back, eyes sweeping the room.

“A reminder,” he says coldly, “that there is no resistance left. Only ruin. And those who cling to it… will end up like this.”

A sickening silence follows. The Death Eaters bow their heads in unison.

But then Mattheo moves.

His chair scrapes back quietly as he stands, stepping out from Voldemort’s shadow. The air seems to shift with him. He’s young, but the power that clings to him is undeniable. Dark robes cling to broad shoulders, silver embroidery catching the green light. He walks towards you slowly, his expression unreadable.

He stops in front of you.