Descent - Mattheo Riddle

Chapter twelve

Observer

May 20th 9 p.m. , Arena

Lord Voldemort sat atop one of the ancient towers overlooking the makeshift arena with an air of detached grandeur. The stone battlements were weathered, rough under his pale hands, a stark contrast to his cold, smooth skin. Below, the expanse of the Hogwarts grounds stretched out, an eerie blend of desolation and menace. The slightly metallic scent of blood lingered faintly in the air, intermingling with the acrid smell of a recent fire. The arena, illuminated by the powerful floodlights, stood in harsh relief against the encroaching dusk, casting long, stark shadows.

The weather was mild, a deceptive calm that belied the tension hanging thick in the atmosphere. The sky, a deepening canvas of purples and blues, threatened to swallow the remaining daylight. Yet, within the confines of the arena, every detail was thrown into sharp relief by the harsh, unforgiving light. It was a scene meticulously orchestrated for both psychological and physical torment.

Voldemort's crimson eyes scanned the scene with predatory intensity. He observed the slight tremor in Lucia's stance, her discomfort palpable even from a distance. She stood in the center of the arena, clad in the lightweight, non-protective battle suit they had provided her. Her eyes flickered with a mixture of fear and defiance, her body tense and alert, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. The memory of the spiders and the unrelenting darkness had left an indelible mark, a vulnerability Voldemort intended to exploit.

He leaned back slightly, the fabric of his robes whispering against the stone. His plan was simple yet cunning: to push Lucia to her limits, to force her to reveal the extent of her powers. Torture had yielded nothing so far; she remained resilient; her spirit unbroken. It was time to test her in a different way. By placing her in a life-or-death situation, he hoped to trigger a display of the abilities she so stubbornly kept hidden.

Moreover, Voldemort's patience with his son, Mattheo, was wearing thin. The boy had shown promise, but his recent failures and his apparent inability to break Lucia had sown seeds of doubt in Voldemort's mind. This test was as much for Lucia as it was for Mattheo. It was a measure of his son's capability, or lack thereof, to handle the tasks assigned to him. Progress was needed, and it was needed now.

The Dark Lord's gaze shifted momentarily to the stands, where his loyal Death Eaters watched in anticipation. Among them, isolated and brooding, sat Mattheo Riddle. The young man's face was a mask of inscrutability, but Voldemort could sense the turmoil beneath. Mattheo's failure would be costly, a fact he was undoubtedly aware of.

The scene was set, the players in their places. The soft murmur of the crowd, the rustle of robes, and the occasional clink of armor pieces created a sinister symphony. Voldemort's fingers drummed rhythmically on the stone as he waited for the spectacle to begin, the sound barely audible over the distant echoes of their breathing and the crackling of the torches.

Lucia's fear was a palpable entity, a living, breathing thing that filled the space between them. She felt the eyes of the Death Eaters boring into her, the weight of their expectations and sadistic curiosity pressing down on her. She was acutely aware of the Dark Lord's presence, his gaze a cold, unyielding force. The knowledge that her fate rested in this twisted performance only served to heighten her anxiety.

Despite the fear, a spark of defiance remained within her. It was this defiance that Voldemort sought to crush, to replace with a raw display of magical power. He watched as she shifted slightly, the tension in her muscles betraying her readiness to fight, to survive.

And then, amidst the blur of faces, she sensed him—Mattheo. His presence, distant and isolated, offered no comfort. Instead, it reminded her of the complexity of her predicament. The son of her tormentor, a figure of enigmatic cruelty, sat apart from the others, his eyes averted, his mind seemingly elsewhere. Yet, she could feel his gaze like a weight on her soul, a silent witness to her impending trial.