The Slytherin common room was unusually quiet, the fire crackling low in the hearth and casting flickering shadows across the cold stone walls. Most students had already retreated to their dorms, and the ones still lingering knew better than to disturb the Riddle brothers when tension was in the air.

Tom strolled in, his steps calm but purposeful, the hem of his black robe brushing against the floor with every calculated movement. His gaze scanned the room once — and locked on the slouched figure in the far corner.

Mattheo.

He was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, his posture slack, fingers clenched tightly in his lap, staring blankly at the fire like it might give him answers he didn’t want to hear. His usually sharp expression was dulled with something heavier — something quieter.

Tom approached, slow and controlled, but his eyes gleamed with an edge. “Mattheo,” he said coolly, voice barely above a whisper. “Where have you been? I’ve been searching for you the entire day.”

Mattheo didn’t respond at first, his lips parting slightly as if unsure whether to lie or stay silent. Then he finally looked up at Tom. Tried to mask it. But the fear, the tension—it cracked through anyway. His voice came out hoarse, unconvincing.

“Father… wanted to talk to me.”

Tom stilled.

The air shifted. The fire popped.

Tom’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but his voice remained level—too level. “Tell me what he did.”

Mattheo lowered his eyes, his tongue running over the inside of his cheek nervously. He didn’t answer.

Tom stepped closer, and this time his tone dropped—deeper, colder. “Mattheo. Tell me.”

Silence.

Then, slowly—reluctantly—Mattheo’s fingers moved to the edge of his robe. With a shaky hand, he rolled the sleeve up past his elbow.

The mark was there.

Burned into his skin like a brand.

The Dark Mark.

Tom’s breath hitched. Just slightly. Just enough.

He stared at it.

That black serpent, coiled around the skull—its eyes lifeless and endless.

He said nothing for several long seconds.

Then, softly—almost dangerously—Tom whispered, “He had no right.”

Mattheo’s voice cracked when he spoke, barely above a breath. “He said I didn’t have a choice… That you would’ve done it too.”

Tom’s gaze sharpened instantly. “Don’t compare me to him,” he said. “You are my brother. You always have a choice with me.”

The fire flared behind them as if reacting to the rage that pulsed, unspoken, in the room.

Mattheo looked away, ashamed. “I thought… if I did it, he’d stop. That maybe it would be enough.”

Tom’s expression darkened, his fists clenched at his sides.

“He’ll never stop,” Tom said quietly. “But I will.”

And for the first time in a long while, Mattheo wasn’t sure if Tom meant he would protect him.

Or destroy their father.