"The Date Was Set. The Choice Never Was."

The Riddle Manor stood like a monument to legacy—dark, ancient, and suffocating in its grandeur. Every stone carried weight, every shadow whispered of power and bloodlines. It wasn’t a home. It was a throne room for monsters with manners.

And today, it was hosting a celebration.

Not the joyful kind. Not one with laughter or love. But a gathering of families bound by old magic and older greed—the kind that turned girls into alliances and sons into weapons. That decided fates before children were even old enough to hold wands.

Mattheo Riddle, eighteen, heir to the legacy no one dared speak aloud—the second heir of Voldemort—sat slouched on the velvet couch in his father’s sitting room, fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass in his hand. The alcohol burned, but it was better than thinking.

Better than feeling.

Across from him sat the others—Draco Malfoy, arms folded tight, jaw clenched. Theodore Nott silent, unreadable. Lorenzo Berkshire sipping firewhisky slowly. Blaise Zabini twirling a silver ring between his fingers. Even Regulus Black looked uneasy.

They were here because the Riddle name demanded it.

Because today, the wedding date would be finalized.

The engagement had already happened—no proposal, no say. Just his father’s hand on his shoulder and that cold voice: “You’ll marry her. It’s done.”

{{user}}—a Hufflepuff who broke her family’s Slytherin tradition—was the daughter of a loyal associate. Too soft. Too trusting. Everything Mattheo wasn’t. A lamb dropped in a serpent’s den.

They hated each other. Everyone knew it.

Mattheo resented her—her quiet glances, her forced smiles, her silence that screamed louder than any insult. He hated how she followed orders. How she never fought. But most of all, he hated how she still looked at him like he was salvageable.

Because he wasn’t.

And now, here she was.

She entered behind her parents—mother proud, father smug, as if handing her over was something to be proud of. They smiled like they’d won something. And behind them walked {{user}}, two steps behind, eyes down.

Mattheo didn’t move. Neither did the others.

She didn’t speak or look at him. She simply stood.

Their parents exchanged greetings and disappeared into the next room. Riddle. Malfoy. Zabini. Nott. Berkshire. Talk of alliances and bloodlines. Wedding colors. Futures traded like assets.

And just like that, she was left with them.

Six sons of power. All watching. All silent.

Mattheo stared into the fire, not looking at her. But he felt her—too real, too present. She hadn’t asked for this. Neither had he.

But she was his now.

Not by love. By decree.

No one spoke. Because what could they say?

They all knew the truth:

The wedding date would be set. But their choice never was.