The Serpent & Hawke | Mattheo Riddle | Enemies to lovers

Part 1 - No rest for the wicked

Vicious bolts of lightning illuminated the grand bathroom while my ragged breaths echo off the tiled walls.

I clutch the sink, knuckles white. Staring into the black void of the drain, the darkness pulls my gaze inward. I've spent countless hours over the summer holidays hunched over this very sink, wishing that void could swallow me whole.

With a trembling hand, I twist the faucet handle and splash icy water over my face.

The shock of the cold makes me gasp, but I welcome the sting. When I finally raise my head, haunted chestnut eyes rimmed with exhaustion glare back at me from the antique mirror.

Just a few more weeks of this, I tell myself.

Snatching a towel, I dry my face before sucking in a breath and striding back into the ballroom.

"You're not quick enough, boy!"

Alfred's grating voice slices through the heavy air. All afternoon, this brute of a man has been tormenting me, criticising my every move.

"Use your hips, you're too stiff, Mattheo!"

Rage boils up from my gut as I whip my wand furiously at my duelling partner.

"You're going to be stiff in a minute!" I snarl back.

Sweat was beading on my furrowed brows and dripping down my face.

The rhythmic swishing of my wand cuts off as Lucius Malfoy appears in the arched doorway.

"Alfred, you may continue Mattheo's training tomorrow. I would like a word with him." He announces.

I squeeze my eyes shut, chest heaving as I brace my hands on my knees, trying to steady the waves of dizzying exhaustion crashing over me.

When I pry my eyes open, Lucius is already stalking towards me, that stupid snake-headed cane clicking off the floor.

"Your father has asked me how your training is going. He says he wasn't too impressed with you being defeated several times in a row last week." He states, in that insultingly bored drawl. "He expects greater things from—"

"When does he not?!"

I cut him off, voice cracking with fatigue.

"I can't give him great if that asshole Alfred doesn't let me rest! It's constant Lucius!"

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by my harsh panting. I sink onto the bench, chugging water greedily to soothe my thirst. Lucius regards me before stepping closer.

"There is no rest for the wicked, Mattheo. You for one should know that already." He breathes. "But, I can see you are indeed depleted. Those cuts on your face need some attention. I'll have some Dittany and Wiggenweld sent to your room. Go clean up for supper, it will be served shortly."

I rise to my feet. "I'm not hungry."

Lucius arches one condescending brow.

"How come Draco isn't worked this hard?" I add, wiping away blood seeping into my mouth with the back of my hand.

"It is not Draco that your father wishes to take reign over the Death Eaters, is it? He wants you to be fully prepared. To be respected...To be feared."

The mocking lilt in his tone makes my heart stutter with fury.

He stalks closer, his face now mere inches from mine.

"Then again, if he isn't much impressed with you, then maybe that honour will bestow upon Draco after all."

His lips curve into a triumphant smirk, and I feel my anger boiling over, simmering heat spreading through my chest as if I've been Incendio'd from the inside out.

I say nothing as I storm out, leaving Lucius alone with that infuriating smirk.

My bedroom door slams with a crash.

I've done nothing but work myself to the bone, pushing beyond every limit to impress my father. He wants me to be feared? My very existence is enough to send tremors of terror. I am the Dark Lord's son!

It doesn't seem to matter what I do, or how hard I try. I'm never good enough.

A roar of uncontrollable rage tears from my throat as I lash out, sweeping my arm across the fireplace mantel. Narcissa's antique vase, an ornate silver clock, and a framed photograph all crash to the floor, shattering glass and splintering wood.

For several long moments, I stand there, as I struggle to regain control.

The storm outside seemingly growing more violent.

My gaze falls to the broken frame, and I kneel to retrieve it, brushing away shards of glass.

It's a photograph from my eighteenth birthday. Theo, Enzo, Pansy, and Astoria — grin up at me from the frame, their faces flushed from Butterbeer.

I remember that night in vivid flashes. The raucous laughter echoing through the pub, Pansy falling flat on her arse while dancing, and the nameless blonde chick whose lips tasted of firewhiskey as I took her in a grimy bathroom stall.

A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips as I carefully place the photo back on the mantel. For all our bickering and casual cruelty, these people are the closest thing to happiness I have right now.

My anger ebbs away, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, the scent of stale sweat and desperation clinging to my skin as I survey the wreckage on the floor.

With a ragged sigh, I let myself fall backward onto the mattress. The tension bleeds from my muscles as exhaustion claims me, dragging me down into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

If there's one mercy to be found in this relentless training, it's the blissful escape of unconsciousness.

As I drift off, a final thought flicks through my mind.

Tomorrow, I'll have to be better. 

I'll have to be the son he wants me to be.