Tangled Fates - Mattheo Riddle x OC

020.

Augustus Rookwood entered the dimly lit chamber where Voldemort waited, his heart pounding in his chest as he approached the Dark Lord's throne. With a respectful nod, he took a seat, his eyes fixed on the figure that loomed before him.

"My lord, you wanted to see me?" Rookwood inquired, his voice steady despite the nervous fluttering in his stomach.

Voldemort inclined his head, his crimson eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a shiver down Rookwood's spine. "Yes, Rookwood," he replied, his voice smooth as silk. "I have questions regarding your daughter, Verena."

Rookwood's breath caught in his throat at the mention of his daughter's name, his mind racing with a thousand unanswered questions. "My daughter?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. "What do you wish to know, my lord?"

Voldemort leaned forward, his gaze piercing as he fixed Rookwood with a look that seemed to strip away the layers of his soul. "Tell me, Rookwood," he began, his voice low and ominous. "What do you know of your daughter's powers?"

Rookwood swallowed hard, his mind racing as he struggled to find the right words. "My lord," he began, his voice trembling slightly. "Verena... she possesses a unique gift. An affinity for ancient magic."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his interest piqued by Rookwood's words. "Ancient magic?" he mused, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Explain."

Rookwood cleared his throat, gathering his thoughts as he spoke. "There is a prophecy, my lord," he explained, his words measured. "A prophecy that speaks of a witch who wields ancient magic, a power unlike any seen before. Many believe that Verena is the one foretold in this prophecy."

Voldemort's gaze hardened, his mind racing with possibilities as he contemplated Rookwood's words. "Interesting," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "Very interesting indeed."

August Rookwood hesitated, his heart pounding in his chest as he prepared to reveal the full extent of the prophecy to Voldemort. "My lord," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "There is more to the prophecy than I have told you."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed, his gaze fixed on Rookwood with an intensity that made him feel as though he were under a microscope. "Go on," Voldemort urged, his voice low and dangerous.

Rookwood took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he was about to say. "The prophecy speaks of two individuals," he explained, his words measured. "One who wields ancient magic, and one who is destined to stand by their side."

Voldemort leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "And who is this other individual?" he demanded, his voice a low growl.

Rookwood swallowed hard, his mouth dry as he spoke the name that had haunted his dreams for years. "Your son, my lord," he whispered, the words heavy on his tongue. 

Voldemort's gaze darkened, a flicker of something akin to pride flashing in his crimson eyes. "Mattheo," he mused, the name rolling off his tongue like a curse. "Yes, I am aware of his... potential."

Rookwood nodded, his heart pounding in his chest as he awaited Voldemort's response. He knew that the revelation of the prophecy would have far-reaching consequences, and he could only hope that Voldemort would see fit to protect his daughter from the dangers that lay ahead.

Voldemort leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with a sinister light as he addressed Augustus. "You speak of ancient magic," he began, his voice low and menacing. "But are you aware of the power it truly holds? Are you certain that it will serve our purposes?"

Augustus swallowed hard, the gravity of Voldemort's words weighing heavily upon him. "My lord," he replied, his voice trembling slightly, "I believe that ancient magic is a force to be reckoned with. It has the power to shape destinies and alter the course of history."