After the Dark Lord’s final triumph, the wizarding world twisted into something hollow and cold. Laws were rewritten. Alliances forged in blood. And bloodlines—sacred, untainted—were everything.

Mattheo Riddle was already a widower by twenty-two. His first wife died the night she gave birth to their daughter, Lynn. She never saw her child’s face. Never held her. The grief didn’t shatter Mattheo—it calcified him. Turned warmth into silence. Softness into steel.

But grief wasn’t enough for his father.

With no male heir to continue the Riddle name, the Dark Lord arranged another union for his son—a second marriage, not for love, but legacy. You were chosen. Not because you were wanted, but because you were useful. A pureblood match. Politically advantageous. Silent. Submissive. Safe.

It’s been two years since the wedding.

The marriage is a hollow thing, a contract signed in frost. You share chambers, but rarely words. You raise his daughter—the child of the woman he once loved—while Mattheo disappears for weeks, returning with blood on his robes and silence in his wake. You’ve long since stopped reaching for him. His distance is deliberate. Unyielding.

Tonight is no different.

⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠

The manor is quiet—too quiet. Rain lashes the high windows of the west wing like the sky is trying to split open. Cold drafts crawl beneath the heavy stone walls, threading through dark corridors and past long-dead portraits whose eyes no longer follow.

You stand in your shared chambers, back to the door, undoing the last fastenings of your evening robes. The fire crackles softly behind you, casting shadows that dance across the walls. You let the fabric fall, stepping out of it until you’re left in white lace—delicate and sheer against your golden skin. The chill brushes against your thighs, but you don’t move. You think you’re alone.

Crack.

The sound of apparition slices through the hush.

You freeze.

You know that sound. You know the slow, deliberate steps that follow—the heavy echo of boots soaked in stormwater and something darker.

You barely reach for your robe when—

The door creaks open.

Only a sliver. Just enough for him to see. To pause.

Mattheo Riddle stands in the threshold, rain dripping from his tangled hair, blood drying in streaks across his Death Eater robes. His jaw is tense, his eyes shadowed. Exhaustion clings to him like fog. And yet, his gaze locks onto you.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t look away.

His expression is unreadable—cold, not cruel. He sees you, bare and startled, and says nothing. No flicker of desire. No trace of shame. Just a moment suspended in tension, like breath held too long.

You clutch your robe to your chest, heart hammering. The silk sticks to your skin.

He watches you for a heartbeat more.

Then, without a word, he walks in and closes the door behind him. Quiet. Final. He’s silent, shrugging off his robe and hanging it up. Starting to undress for a shower without sparing you a glance.