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

Sierra's body ached, every nerve raw from the effects of Bellatrix's Crucio curse. Her vision swam with tears, but she fought to keep them from falling. She was slumped against a cold stone wall, her wrists tied tightly behind her back by enchanted ropes that bit into her skin.

Dolohov loomed over her, his cruel smile never faltering. "Poor little Rosier," he sneered, tightening the ropes for good measure. "Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

She glared at him, her lips pressed together to suppress the sob threatening to escape. But Dolohov had no patience for silence. His hand swung out, slapping her hard across the face. Her head snapped to the side, the sting of the blow burning her cheek.

"That's better," he said darkly. "I like to see that defiance crack."

Without giving her a moment to recover, he yanked her up by her arm and shoved her forward. Her legs stumbled, her strength barely enough to keep her upright, but Dolohov's grip was unrelenting. He dragged her forward, his tone mocking.

"Welcome back to Lestrange Manor, little rabbit. I'm sure you remember it well. The place where you made your first kill.

Fitting, isn't it? Full circle."

Her heart twisted painfully at his words. She did remember. The cold halls of the manor, the screams that echoed in her memory-she had been forced to take a life here, her soul fractured ever since. Now, she was being dragged back to face something even darker.

The heavy doors of Lestrange Manor opened before them, and she was pushed inside. The air was cold, the grand hall lit by flickering torches that cast eerie shadows on the walls. The knot in her stomach tightened with every step.

When they reached the main room, her breath hitched.

There he was.

The Dark Lord.

Voldemort sat on an ornate, high-backed chair, his gaunt, serpentine features twisted into a grimace that could almost resemble a smile. His red eyes burned like embers as they locked onto her, and her blood ran cold. He radiated an aura of pure malice, his presence suffocating.

But it wasn't Voldemort that shattered her.

It was the figure standing to his right.

Mattheo Riddle.

Her heart plummeted. He stood tall, his flawless features unreadable, his dark eyes refusing to meet hers. He was dressed immaculately, his posture rigid, a perfect portrait of control.

She couldn't stop the tears that slipped down her face as she stared at him. Her Mattheo. Her lover. The boy who held her through her darkest nights. And now he stood there, silent, by his father's side, as if he were nothing more than the Dark Lord's loyal son.

Dolohov shoved her forward, and she stumbled, falling to her knees before them. The ropes burned against her wrists as she tried to steady herself, but her body betrayed her exhaustion.

Voldemort's voice was soft, yet it carried a weight that silenced the room.

"Ah, Sierra Rosier," he said, his tone almost amused. "The prodigal daughter returns. How... delightful."

Her throat was dry, her lips trembling. She wanted to scream, to curse, to demand answers from Mattheo, but she couldn't summon the strength. Instead, she kept her head high, her defiance flickering like the last flame of a dying candle.

Her throat was dry, her lips trembling. She wanted to scream, to curse, to demand answers from Mattheo, but she couldn't summon the strength. Instead, she kept her head high, her defiance flickering like the last flame of a dying candle.