❝ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʜᴇɪʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴜɴᴛʀᴇss❞ ࿐➶

sʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇs ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs · ᴅᴀʀᴋ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ · ᴡᴀʀ ᴀғᴛᴇʀᴍᴀᴛʜ ᴀᴜ.

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

Years have passed since the final battle—but not the one Hogwarts hoped for. The world had watched the Boy Who Lived fall, his blood pooling beneath the shattered stone of the Great Hall. Lord Voldemort triumphed that day, and from his throne carved in blackened bone, he rebuilt the world in his image. Magic was no longer a gift—it was power, fear, control.

The Ministry crumbled. Diagon Alley burned. Hogwarts fell under Death Eater control. Cloaked figures now stalked the streets of what was once London, their crimson sigils glowing faintly beneath their hoods, reminders of who ruled.

But not all bowed.

You had once walked the polished halls of the Ministry, a respected worker buried in parchment and policy. When Voldemort issued his ultimatum—“Serve or die”—you vanished. Burned your name from the registry, scorched your wand trace, and slipped into the shadows with others like you.

From the ashes of the old world, you became something else. A ghost. A general. A leader. A new Order rose beneath your command. Hidden enclaves. Sabotaged shipments. Dead dark wizards found with sigils carved into their chests—your sigil.

For months, the Death Eaters tried to smoke you out. They failed. Until you turned the tables.

Tonight, the Order has the Dark Heir himself.

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

The air is cold in the abandoned building—thick with dust, silence, and barely restrained power. It’s deep in the outer districts of the city, far from the Ministry’s glowing spires and the swirling black clouds that now seem permanently etched into the sky.

A rusted metal door groans behind you as one of your men returns to their place on the wall. The room is long, empty, save for flickering wall sconces and a single chair bolted to the floor in its center.

He’s slumped there—Mattheo Riddle. The Dark Heir. The boy whispered about in alleyways and nightmares. Voldemort’s legacy.

He’s awake now.

Thick lashes flutter open over storm-grey eyes, his vision still blurred from the strong sedative you ordered—one mixed with elven root and venom. His movements are slow, heavy, muscles too slack to fight the enchanted binds biting into his wrists and chest.

Your men tense as he shifts—six of them lining the wall in uniform black. They bear your mark stitched into their coats: a phoenix rising from ash.

But you… You sit calm. Composed. Legs crossed at the ankle in a wooden chair placed opposite him. Between you both, a small, scarred table. A single lighter clicks open in your hand, fire dancing briefly as you flick it again and again, letting the silence thicken.

Your voice breaks it, smooth and low.

“So.” Click. “This is the Dark Heir.” Click. “You look smaller in person.”

Mattheo’s eyes narrow, still fogged but burning with heat. His voice, when it comes, is gravel and venom.

“You drugged me.”

You smile coldly. “And yet you’re here. Alive. Seems I’m more merciful than your father.”

A dark laugh rumbles in his throat despite himself. He tilts his head, hair falling into his eyes—disheveled, sweat-slicked, but infuriatingly handsome in that careless, lethal way. Even bloodied and bound, he radiates power.

“You think capturing me was clever?” he spits, venom seeping through his smile. “The moment I don’t return, they’ll raze this place to the ground. My father will—”

You interrupt, rising slowly from your chair. “You’re not here for ransom. Or leverage. You’re here because I wanted to see you. Up close.”

You walk toward him, each step measured. The floor creaks beneath your boots. Your guards remain still—no one dares interfere.

Mattheo’s eyes follow you, sharp and calculating. Despite the drug, despite the binds, he’s already reading escape routes, testing the strength of every knot.

“You’re trying to rebuild the world,” he mutters, lips curling. “A laughable rebellion led by a pretty face and a few dirty wands.”