???????? - M.R

The Lestrange Manor stood ominously in the cold February twilight, its looming silhouette casting jagged shadows across the grounds. Mattheo Riddle pushed open the grand iron doors, his boots clicking sharply against the marble floor as he entered the main hall. The air inside was heavy, tinged with the faint scent of smoke and decay, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

The memories of the last time he was here burned vividly in his mind. That night, during one of the Dark Lord’s gatherings, Sierra Rosier had been seated in his lap. He remembered the weight of her against him, how her sharp tongue and fiery nature had matched his energy perfectly. She was his that night—his in a way that no one else had ever dared to be. Bold. Unapologetic. Beautiful. The recollection of her laughter, the way she had leaned into him, made his jaw tighten.

But now, everything had changed.

He moved purposefully toward the meeting room, where he knew his father awaited him. Inside, the air was thick with tension. Draco Malfoy sat stiffly at the long table, his pale face betraying nerves despite his usual composed demeanor. Theodore Nott lounged in his chair, though his casual posture did little to hide the glances he cast around the room. Blaise Zabini, however, was the most noticeably subdued. He sat with his head bowed slightly, avoiding the gazes of everyone around him.

When Mattheo entered, the murmurs died instantly. None of them dared to look him directly in the eye. He could feel their unease, their wariness. The air shifted, thickened, as he strode across the room to take his place beside his father.

And there he was. The Dark Lord himself, seated at the head of the table. Voldemort’s serpentine features were as chilling as ever, his crimson eyes locking onto Mattheo with an intensity that made the others visibly shrink. But Mattheo didn’t flinch. He had grown accustomed to his father’s piercing gaze long ago.

“Mattheo,” Voldemort greeted, his voice low and cold, sending a shiver through the room. “You’ve returned. I trust you’ve been... occupied.”

Mattheo inclined his head slightly, keeping his expression unreadable. “I have, my Lord.”

Voldemort’s lips curled into something resembling a smile. “Good. Very good. We have much to discuss.”

He gestured for Mattheo to sit, and the younger Riddle took his place, leaning back slightly as his father’s eyes bore into him.

“The Rosier girl,” Voldemort said, his tone casual yet laced with expectation. “Tell me, what is the status of young Sierra?”

Mattheo’s fingers twitched subtly, but he masked his reaction with an easy expression. He had prepared for this moment, knowing it would come. His father would want to know every detail, every shred of information about Sierra Rosier—and Mattheo’s involvement with her.

“She’s alive,” Mattheo said smoothly, his voice steady. “Though she has been... weakened.”

“Weakened?” Voldemort’s brow arched slightly, his interest piqued. “Explain.”

Mattheo leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “The girl is resourceful, my Lord. She attempted something beyond her abilities, something reckless. It nearly killed her.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but Mattheo didn’t spare him a glance. His focus remained solely on his father, who was watching him with a mixture of curiosity and calculation.

“Nearly,” Voldemort repeated, his voice soft but dangerous. “But not entirely. Why is that, Mattheo?”

Mattheo’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. “She is of no threat to you, my Lord. Her actions were misguided, born out of desperation to protect her brother. She’s barely clinging to life as it is.”