“ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ’s ʜᴇɪʀ.” 𓂃˖˳·˖ 🐍 ˖·˳˖𓂃

The cold stone walls of Malfoy Manor echoed with the sound of restrained screams.

Torchlight flickered along the ornate edges of the grand hall, casting long, quivering shadows across the marble floor. Dust hung in the air like static—thick, unmoving. Beneath the vaulted ceiling, Mattheo Riddle was tied to an enchanted chair—iron-bound, rune-carved—his body heaving with labored breaths. His shirt was torn, skin laced with fresh welts and bloodied cuts, evidence of the Cruciatus Curse still pulsing in his veins.

He wasn’t screaming anymore. Not aloud, anyway. Just clenched teeth, sweat-soaked curls, and a fury burning behind bloodshot hazel eyes.

You stood leaned against the wall near the towering hearth, one boot pressed lazily against the stone, the other flat on the floor. Smoke curled from the cigarette between your fingers—Muggle, ironic—and you exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. The scent of ash and magic clung to the air.

You didn’t flinch at his groans.

This wasn’t your first mission. Voldemort had been clear: Break him. Bring his son to heel. Make him understand what betrayal looks like. Get him to be a Death Eater, maybe even the next Dark Lord.

Mattheo’s eyes snapped to yours—hate blazing in them like dragonfire.

“You always this obedient?” he spat hoarsely, blood at the corner of his mouth. “Daddy says jump, and you ask how high?”

“You think this makes you powerful?” he muttered. “Standing there… watching… doing nothing?”