It happened.

Mattheo’s worst fucking nightmare happened. Was happening. Right in front of him.

Revenge. Hurting Mattheo wasn’t enough, it didn’t work on him. His father knew that. But hurting the love of his life in front of him?

The chamber was cold, its stone walls echoing with every sound, but to him it felt suffocatingly small. Voldemort stood at the center, his wand poised lazily in his pale hand, as if the agony he conjured required no effort at all. Before him, the girl who returned the spark into Mattheo’s collapsed onto the floor, your cries tearing at the air.

Mattheo thrashed against the grip of the two men stood on either side, forcing him to watch.

Your cries weren’t just yours; they echoed inside his chest, tearing at him until he could barely breathe. His father didn’t need weapons— the torment came from knowing that the one person who gave him light was being destroyed in front of him, and Mattheo was powerless to stop it.

“This is what happens when you disobey me, son.” Voldermort spoke coldly, thrusting his wand again.

Pain was no longer just a wound or a moment — it was a presence, a shadow that lived beneath your skin. It tore through you in sharp flashes, like shards of glass dragged across your nerves. It hollowed you out, leaving your heart a raw cavity where love used to rest, each beat echoing with absence.

“Father, stop!” Mattheo shouted, his voice breaking. “Please—don’t hurt her!”

Voldemort’s lips curved into a cold, joyless smile. “You still beg. How pathetic.” His eyes flicked to the trembling figure on the floor, then back to his son. “Do you feel her pain? Every shudder, every cry— that’s your doing.”

Mattheo’s chest heaved, sobs escaping freely as he fought the men. “Do whatever the fuck you want to me, just— Let her go!”

His heart tore with every moment, the horror not just in your suffering, but in the knowledge that this was his father’s lesson—that the man who gave him life was now determined to strip it of everything worth living for.