mattheo riddle was not his father.

he wasn't.

he was, on occasion, a cruel bastard who couldn't take a joke or the dickhead always fighting with someone else — but he would never be like him.

he was not his father. he kept repeating the phrase in his head, over and over, to remain sane while he was imprisoned in the shackles of his father's footsteps. the grueling experience of being a death eater was weighing on him.

the mere sight of the tattoed mark on his forearm had bile rising in his throat.

the truth was: mattheo wanted out.

it was the reason he'd agreed with the order of the phoenix to become a spy for them. what made it worse was meeting you, and realizing everything he could've ever had. no such thing as 'running away' or 'having kids' or 'getting married' existed when you were the son of the dark lord in the midst of a war.

late one night, you had both snuck away to the small flat mattheo rented out, curled up by the fire. your eyelids were shut with sleep, but he was awake. he found it hard to sleep with so much on his mind.

it all happened in a blur — the door being unlocked with a charm, death eaters surrounding the two of you, hoisting you by the arms and mattheo being dragged away...

now, all he could feel was cold marble against his cheek.

"disgraceful child." his father spat in his face as he lay there, arms bound behind his back.

somewhere across the room in his peripheral, you were bound too, giving him a pleading look.

mattheo clenched his jaw.