The castle feels unbearably loud without him. Students chatter about their futures, laughter spilling through the halls now that Voldemort’s shadow has passed. But for Mattheo, the silence is deafening…because his brother’s voice is gone.
He sits alone in the Slytherin common room, hunched forward, a glass of firewhiskey untouched beside him. His knuckles are sore and aching from hitting the wall.
You find him there, and before you can speak, he mutters hoarsely, “It’s too quiet.”
You tilt your head. “Quiet?”
Mattheo lets out a broken laugh, bitter and jagged. “He never shut up. Always correcting me. Always pointing out every flaw, every mistake. Like that time I tried a shield charm and he said my wrist angle was off by exactly 2.4 degrees.”
The memory hits hard.
It had been late, the two of them hidden in an unused classroom, dueling wands out. Mattheo’s hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, chest heaving from being out through the wringer.
Tom had lowered his wand, shaking his head. “Your angle was off again.”
“The hell it was,” Mattheo had snapped, throwing his wand onto the desk.
“Four degrees. Maybe five,” Tom replied flatly. “Your shield charm flicked left. A half-competent curse would have taken you out in an instant.”
Mattheo had groaned loudly, rolling his eyes. “Salazar, you’re insufferable. Who cares if it’s four degrees?”
Tom had stepped closer, wand tip pressing into his chest. “No, I’m precise. There’s a difference. And one day, my precision is the only thing that will keep you alive.”
Mattheo had grinned and cursed him for being unbearable, but when Tom turned away, he’d quietly adjusted his wrist and cast the spell again. Perfect that time.
Now, sitting in the empty common room, Mattheo’s fists clench at the memory. His voice drops to a whisper. “He was unbearable. And now he’s gone. No one to lecture me. No one to stand at my back. No one to… to tell me I was doing it wrong.” His throat tightens. “I hated it. But I needed it. He was my brother.”
You kneel in front of him, searching his eyes. “You still have people here, Mattheo.”
His gaze lifts to you. “Not like him. He was mine. My shield. My reminder that I wasn’t alone in this cursed name. And now—” His voice hardens, anger spilling through the grief. “Now it’s just me.”
You realize with a sinking heart: the Riddle brothers may have fought like hell, but they were always back-to-back. Now, with Tom gone, Mattheo is left facing the world alone.