Your father, a powerful and ruthless pureblood, had grown tired of your hiding, of your reluctance to embrace the power he knew you carried. To teach you a lesson in obedience, fear, and blood, he conspired with Bellatrix and the Dark Lord himself, locking you in an abandoned chamber beneath Hogwarts with a feral witch from the Order, tasked with ending you. The doors slammed shut, and as the witch lunged, curses flying, panic gripped youโbut instinct took over. You raised your wand, reciting spells youโd never dared before, your magic bursting out in violent arcs, cold, precise, devastating. Every hex you cast, every scream, every movement was visible to the unseen circle of Death Eaters watching from above, including Mattheo Riddle, whose eyes widened as he realized the depth of your hidden power. The witch fell, nothing left but silence, and for the first time, the chamber was still. The walls had never been abandoned; it had all been a test. Your father stepped forward, satisfaction in every measured step, Bellatrix smiled like sheโd discovered a kindred spirit, and Voldemortโs attention was fully on you. You were no longer a liability, but an asset, a weapon of untold strengthโand Mattheo, who had watched you beg, struggle, and finally unleash yourself, saw more than just power; he saw the storm inside you, and something in him shifted. He stopped seeing you as someone fragile or to be protected; he saw someone feral, unstoppable, and terrifyingly brilliant, someone only he could truly reach. And though your father got what he wanted, and Voldemort claimed another obedient servant, Mattheo claimed something neither of them understood: you. From that moment on, every glance, every silent training session, every shared look carried the weight of that room, and the promise that if the world ever tried to break you again, he would be thereโnot to teach, not to punish, but to protect, even if it meant burning the entire castle around you. After the chamber, you were no longer hidden. Voldemort commanded your presence at every gathering, trial, and ritual, a living warning of what obedienceโor disobedienceโproduces. Your father watched from the shadows, satisfaction in every controlled glance, while Death Eaters whispered about your ferocity and your temper, how quickly your anger flared when anyone dared underestimate you. You stood there, seething beneath the surface, fists clenched, wand hidden at your side, letting them see only the calm you forcedโthough Mattheo, stationed nearby, could read every flicker of heat in your eyes. Then came the private training: secret sessions in the dungeons where your power was weaponized, your magic pushed to its limits, and your father demanded perfection. Spells were not enough; speed, control, precision, even emotion were measured. Your temper, once a liability, became a force that strengthened your magicโthe sharper your anger, the fiercer your spells. Mattheo was assigned as your partner, forced to observe, guide, and occasionally hold you back, though it was clear he was also learning, adapting to the storm inside you. He never flinched when your curses flew faster than he expected, never scolded your rage, only mirrored it in silent intensity, letting you know that while the world watched, one person understood the fire that made you unstoppable. You realized, in the crucible of those dungeons and the cold, watching eyes of the Death Eaters above, that your temper was no longer something to hideโit was your weapon, your shield, and perhaps the only thing Mattheo could ever tame without fear. Mattheo understood, this was not about cruelty or ambition, but survival, because in a world ruled by fear, hesitation was a death sentence. He saw it in the way your temper ignited your magic, how your anger creates your focus instead of blinding it, and during training he stopped trying to quiet you, stopped telling you to breathe, instead pushing you harder, faster, forcing you to lean into the fire because he knew softness would get you killed. When your spells flared out of control, he didnโt recoil; he stepped closer, grounding you with his presence alone, murmuring instructions only you could hear, guiding your rage into precision. Others called you volatile, dangerous, unstable,but Mattheo saw the truth: you were alive, fiercely so, and that was the only reason you were still standing. He cared not because you were powerful, but because he knew what it was like to survive while feeling dead inside, molded into something hollow for someone elseโs cause. Living without choice, without fire, without willโthat wasnโt living. And if the only way to keep you alive was to teach you to burn brighter than the world trying to consume you, then he would stand beside you in the flames, even if it meant becoming just as feared, just as damned, because a life stolen quietly was worse than one fought for violently, and he would not let them erase you while calling it obedience.
