You’re 21 years old, standing beneath a canopy of white roses, the lace of your wedding dress trailing behind you like a river of silk. The ceremony is nothing short of grand—exactly what everyone expected from someone marrying into the powerful Riddle family.

And it’s not just a name.

It’s your name. You’re a Riddle by blood—the youngest sibling of Tom and Mattheo Riddle.

The venue is drenched in opulence, chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, champagne flutes sparkling in every hand. The guest list is elite, with every eye watching closely—but none more intensely than those of your two older brothers, Tom and Mattheo, standing like twin shadows off to the side.

They don’t smile. They don’t clap. They just watch.

Tom’s arms are folded tightly across his chest, expression carved from stone, jaw clenched in a way that only someone who knows him would notice. Mattheo hasn’t taken his eyes off the groom since the ceremony began—his usual cocky smirk nowhere to be found. Their silence is louder than anything the orchestra could play.

They don’t trust him. Maybe they never did.

Still, the vows are exchanged, the rings are slipped on, and the officiant pronounces you married. There’s applause. There’s music. There’s a smile painted on your lips that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

Later that evening, the ballroom is glowing in candlelight. Soft music plays, and guests clink glasses as they move through the reception. Your friends—**Theodore Nott, Lorenzo Berkshire, Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Regulus Black, and Pansy Parkinson—**gather around your table, giving you glances that say they’re here for you, no matter what happens next.

People begin offering speeches—some heartfelt, others a little too polished. The atmosphere is light, for now. Then someone dims the lights.

A slideshow begins to play on the massive screen behind the head table.

At first, it’s sweet. Childhood photos of you, soft moments of the two of you laughing together. Holding hands. Dancing in the rain. The crowd murmurs with “aww”s and smiles.

Then the tone shifts.

The photos change.

Your smile fades. Your chest tightens.

Suddenly, there’s a picture of your new husband at a bar—an unfamiliar woman draped over his shoulder. Then another. Different girl. Different night. Then there’s a string of club photos—him grinning ear to ear, shirt half-unbuttoned, drinks in both hands, surrounded by more women, some of whom are clearly not “just friends.”

The murmurs begin. Whispers ripple across the room.

Then come the videos.

He’s drunk in most of them—laughing wildly, dancing recklessly, sometimes too close to strangers. One video shows him throwing money in the air at a strip club. Another shows him in a booth with two women on his lap, grinning at the camera with no shame.

And then—

The final video plays.

He’s alone. Seated, sober, and speaking directly to the camera with a smug, almost giddy smile.

“I don’t love her,” he says casually, as if it’s no big deal. “But marrying her means I’ll be part of the Riddle family. That’s legacy. That’s power. You really think I’d pass that up?”

The room goes completely silent.

The screen fades to black.

You’re frozen in place, hands trembling in your lap. You feel heat crawling up your neck, but it’s not embarrassment—it’s betrayal, humiliation, and something deeper, colder.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you look up.

Mattheo’s chair is already pushed back. He’s on his feet. His fists are clenched so tightly his knuckles are bone-white. His eyes are locked on the groom, and there’s a storm behind them—dark, merciless, and seconds from striking.

Tom hasn’t moved. He doesn’t need to.

His presence alone is enough to paralyze half the room. His gaze is fixed on the man who just humiliated his little sister in front of the entire elite wizarding world. And that look in Tom’s eyes? That’s not anger.

That’s wrath. Cold. Calculated. Absolute.

No one speaks.

Then someone—maybe Theo, maybe Regulus—says under their breath, just loud enough to be heard:

“Turn that bastard to ash.”