DE

Mattheo Riddle had always believed there were only two kinds of Death Eaters: the ones who were born monsters and the ones who eventually became them. He never thought he’d be the second. Until Lorenzo was dead. It had been such a stupid fucking mistake. One wrong spell. One hesitation. One second of not moving fast enough when the Dark Lord gave an order. That was all it took. Lorenzo dropped to the floor in front of everyone. No warning. No mercy. No second chance. Just dead. And Mattheo couldn’t stop staring at him. For the first time, the whole thing finally clicked. This wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t power. It wasn’t some glorious cause he’d been told about his entire life. It was fucking fear. Fear of Voldemort. Fear of disappointing him. Fear of being the next person lying cold on the floor because they’d made some tiny, meaningless mistake. That night, Mattheo sat alone with a cigarette burning between his fingers and a half-empty bottle beside him. He’d made up his mind. He was getting the fuck out. There was just one problem. Y/N. He tells her everything. The route he’d figured out. The guards he’d watched changing shifts. The wards he’d noticed were weaker near the eastern boundary. The stolen broom hidden beneath an abandoned shed. The tiny window of opportunity he’d calculated down to the minute. There was only one way out. One boundary line separating the Death Eaters’ territory from freedom. Cross it, and there was no going back. The two of them spend the night preparing in secret, stealing supplies, destroying anything that could identify them, and slipping through corridors while everyone else sleeps. They’re terrified, exhausted, half-drunk, and running purely on adrenaline. And somewhere between the whispered plans and close calls, Y/N realizes something. Mattheo never actually planned on doing this alone. He just hadn’t figured out how to ask her.