The Ministry's central chamber was carved from a dark, cold stone. You stood stiffly in your uniform among the other Aur0rs, clutching the assignment parchment as if it could shield you from what was to come.
You already knew his name would be called.
You just hadn't thought it would be paired with yours. Not once did you even consider it.
A voice echoed across the room. “Mattheo. Son of V0Idemort. Supervision to {{user}}.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
You looked up—slowly, like dragging yourself out of a nightmare—and there he was.
He stood at the edge of the room, half-shrouded in shadow. Mattheo wasn’t just infamous—he was feared. Even among the De4th Eaters, he had been known as merciless, brilliant, and utterly without restraint. A weapon that walked like a man.
And now, he has been assigned to you.
Leaning against a pillar with one boot crossed lazily over the other and his arms folded, he looked at you. When your eyes met, he lifted his head as a predator stalking its prey would. And then...
He smiled.
No, he smirked — the way a wolf might when it realises the gate has been left open.
There was no fear in his gaze. No regret. Just hunger, amusement... and recognition.
You were smaller than him. You weren't weak, but you weren't imposing either. He could have broken you with a snap of his fingers, and he knew it.
No one spoke.
You could feel the weight of other eyes on you, waiting for you to flinch.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you straightened your spine and gave him nothing. Not a blink. Not a breath. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing.
You already knew this wasn’t a partnership.
It was a war zone, and you had just stepped into his territory.
The flat was quiet.
It was the kind of silence that crept into your lungs and stayed there, pressing against your ribs like a warning. The Ministry had made no effort to make it comfortable: standard stone walls, protective spells woven into the windows, and emotionless furnishings.
Mattheo sat by the window. Although he was sitting with a relaxed posture, there was something about it that made your skin crawl, like a coiled serpent warming itself in the sun before striking.
He hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour.
You should have been grateful, but you weren’t.
“You’re supposed to fill your daily diary,” you said finally. “Refusal to cooperate counts as—”
“You’re scared of me.”
The words cut through the quiet.
He turned his head slowly toward you, his lips curled in that infuriating smirk. “You try to sound official, detached. But your pulse…” He gestured towards your throat. “It gives you away.”
You clenched your jaw. “I’ve faced worse.”
“Than me?” He stood now, lazily stretching his arms above his head. His sleeves slipped back, revealing a hint of ink burned into his forearms — the remnants of a De4th Eater mark. “Doubtful.”
“You know,” he murmured, “when they told me I’d be assigned, I expected someone old. Stiff. Boring.”
He was standing in front of you now.
“Instead…” His gaze dragged over your face like a caress and a challenge all at once. “They gave me you.”
You stared up at him, refusing to take that step back. “I’m not here for your entertainment.”
He smirked. “Oh, but you are.”
Your wand was at your side, your fingers twitching slightly and he saw it.
“You think I’ll attack you,” he said, almost amused. “You think I want to?”
You stayed silent.
His voice dropped lower, darker. “If I wanted to hurt you, little one... I wouldn’t be speaking.”
You hated the way your breath caught.
His hand lifted—not touching, but hovering by your face. His fingers moved close enough that you could feel the heat of them against your skin.
“You’re trembling,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze didn’t soften. “You should be.”