✩⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠✩ ᴍᴀʟғᴏʏ ᴍᴀɴᴏʀ — ʀᴇᴛᴜʀɴ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʀᴏsᴇ A girl gone. A weapon made. A reunion not of hearts—but of chaos. ✩⢄⢁✧ ——— ✧⡈⡠✩

They say Beauxbatons was a palace. A place of silks and wine, of polished marble floors and rose-drenched balconies. But it was never a school for you.

It was exile.

Voldemort sent you away the moment you turned sixteen—torn from the only people you’d ever called family. Ripped from the blood-stained halls of Hogwarts. From the smirking mouths of the Slytherin boys who teased you like a sister. From him.

From Mattheo Riddle.

He hadn’t fought it. He hadn’t even said goodbye.

Just watched, jaw tense, as the Dark Lord gave the order. As you were carted off to become “a proper lady”—as if fire like yours could be tamed with ribbon and etiquette.

But the Dark Lord hadn’t accounted for what Beauxbatons would actually do to you. He didn’t know that rose gardens could hide poison. That a girl could trade screaming for silence, fury for strategy. That she’d learn to walk in heels and slit throats in the same breath.

You didn’t come back polished.

You came back dangerous.

Now, thunder cracks across the sky as you step into Malfoy Manor once more. Not as a girl. Not as a child.

As a weapon returned to its maker.

The massive doors groan open, and the meeting halts.

All eyes turn to you.

A low hush blankets the hall as Death Eaters shift in their seats, wine sloshing in crystal goblets. You walk—no, glide—across the room like you own it. Like you never left.

Beautiful. Lethal.

Bellatrix doesn’t move where she sits halfway down the table, but there’s a flash of something in her eyes—pride, maybe. Or recognition. A bloodline fully bloomed.

The Slytherin boys—Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy—eye you like they’ve seen a ghost, each hiding a flicker of unease behind carefully schooled expressions. This isn’t the girl they used to prank by the Black Lake. This is someone else.

And at the head of the table sits the Dark Lord himself, regal and serpentine, his red eyes dragging over you like a blade.

But it’s him—Mattheo—who truly freezes.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Not when you stop in the center of the room.

Not when your eyes—sharp, unreadable—find his.

Not even when a smirk ghosts across your lips like a knife’s edge.

You see the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers flex on his goblet. You see the ripple of disbelief crack through his composure. He doesn’t recognize you—not fully—but something deep in him does.

You were made for him once.

But now? Now you’re something even the Dark Heir isn’t ready for.

Lord Voldemort leans forward on his throne, voice like the hiss of smoke:

“Welcome home, {{user}}.”

And the room exhales.

A storm has returned. And she wears your name.