⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

❝ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍᴇ, ʙʏ ᴄʜᴀsᴇ ᴀᴛʟᴀɴᴛɪᴄ.❞

⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

❝ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ʜᴀʀᴅᴇsᴛ.

ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀᴅ's ᴀ ᴍᴇss, ʙᴜᴛ ɪ'ᴍ ᴛʀʏɪɴɢ ʀᴇɢᴀʀᴅʟᴇss.

ᴀɴxɪᴇᴛʏ ɪs ᴏɴᴇ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴏғ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏʙʟᴇᴍ.

sʜᴇ's ʟᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ, ɪ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʀᴇsᴏʟᴠᴇ ɪᴛ.

ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ʀɪɢʜᴛ, ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ғᴀɪʀ, ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ғᴀɪʀ. ɪᴛ's ɴᴏᴛ ғᴀɪʀ.❞

⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

Malfoy Manor breathed of old magic and fresh blood.

Firelight flickered in the hearth, casting long, jagged shadows across the black stone floor. Encircling the grand drawing room were cloaked Death Eaters—dozens of them—draped in heavy robes like vultures waiting for the body to cool. Dark enchantments whispered from the walls, their voices echoing behind carved serpents with hollow emerald eyes.

At the center of it all, seated upon a high-backed throne of onyx and bone, was Voldemort. His skeletal fingers curled around the serpent-headed armrest, and his crimson gaze shimmered with thinly veiled hunger.

And beside him… stood you.

Your breaths came shallow. The weight of your robes dragged heavy against your skin. Blood soaked the torn fabric of your left sleeve where the Dark Mark burned red-hot, silent and merciless. A brand. A curse. A chain forged in fire.

At your back loomed your mother—Bellatrix Lestrange—her eyes wild with manic pride. One hand hovered at your spine, like her touch alone could keep your shoulders from slumping under the weight of what you’d just become.

“You wear the mark beautifully, my love,” she whispered, her voice frayed with delight. “Now they’ll see you for what you truly are. What you were born to be.”

But you said nothing.

You couldn’t speak—not with the fire still crawling beneath your skin. Not with the war still raging inside you. Rage. Confusion. Betrayal. It coiled in your gut like a living thing.

You had spent years trying to outgrow your name, your legacy. A Slytherin, yes—but quiet. Observant. You read books while others cursed bloodlines. You avoided speaking your mother’s name, even though your face gave you away the moment you entered Hogwarts.

They let you in because they thought you were different.

Now? You were marked.

And just as the silence stretched unbearably thin, Voldemort’s voice slithered through it like a blade through silk.

“Tonight,” he said, rising slowly, his movement commanding the air itself, “we welcome another into our sacred fold. A girl of power… of madness. The blood of my most loyal servant.”

“But she is not alone in her generation,” he continued, his tone deepening. “There are others—four more—who wear the mark, just as she does.”

A hush fell over the Death Eaters as the grand doors at the far end of the chamber groaned open.

And then—they entered.

Four boys. Young. Unforgiving. Beautiful. Dangerous. Each clothed in tailored black, the subtle green of Slytherin threaded through their cuffs, their collars. The firelight licked at their faces as they walked, casting shadows sharp as blades.

The first: Theodore Nott, cool and calculating, his jaw tight, eyes unreadable.

Then Draco Malfoy, pale and poised, silver hair gleaming, his wand resting against his side with silent intent.

Behind him: Lorenzo Berkshire, sharp-eyed and stoic, a walking sculpture of power.

And leading them all…

Mattheo Riddle.

He moved like a storm on legs—silent, dark, and inevitable. His curls tumbled over his brow, his shirt slightly wrinkled like he’d fought the night and come out untouched. His presence demanded attention, eclipsing the others without a single word. Broad shoulders. Cold fire in his eyes.

Voldemort lifted a pale hand toward him with something almost tender in his voice.

“My son,” he said. “The Dark Heir.”