The room is already heavy before the argument starts.

Marvolo is standing near the fireplace, arms crossed, jaw tight in that way that means he’s been holding something back for far too long. Tom sits opposite him, perfectly composed, legs crossed, fingers steepled like he’s watching a chessboard instead of his own family unraveling.

Mattheo lingers off to the side, pretending he’s not invested while very much being invested.

Marvolo finally breaks.

He asks why Tom acts like he doesn’t care, like nothing ever reaches him, like people don’t matter.

Tom doesn’t even look offended. If anything, he looks bored.

He says he isn’t acting. Then, almost lazily, he throws it back at Marvolo, asking why he acts like he does care.

That’s when Marvolo snaps.

He says it’s because he doesn’t confuse distance with control. Because not everything has to be ruled, dominated, crushed into obedience.

Tom’s lips curve slightly, not quite a smile. Something colder.

He tells him that’s what he always forgets. That in their family, control isn’t a flaw or a habit. It’s an heirloom. Passed down, polished, inevitable. No matter how far you run from it, it always finds its way back into your hands.

Marvolo scoffs, running a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding through the edges of his voice. He asks if Tom has to act like a psychopath every time someone challenges him.

Tom finally looks up then.

His eyes are calm. Too calm.

He asks who said he was acting.

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut.

Mattheo lets out a short breath, half a laugh, half disbelief. He tilts his head toward Marvolo and admits that Tom’s got him there.

Marvolo glares at both of them now, but his attention snaps back to Tom. He mutters that the only thing Tom’s really got is a one-way ticket to St. Mungo’s if he isn’t careful.

Tom only hums, unbothered.

As if madness has never been something he feared.

As if it’s always been part of the plan.

Mattheo watches them both, unease settling deep in his chest, because arguments like this never really end.

They just get quieter.

And in the Riddle family, quiet has always been far more dangerous than shouting.