Descent - Mattheo Riddle

Chapter twenty-nine

Observer

June 4th, 8:25 p.m.,

Oliver Harrington had never harbored much fondness for close human relationships. There were those with whom he could maintain a civil rapport, and then there were those whose mere presence incited in him the urge to silence them permanently—preferably before they had a chance to utter another word. Steady relationships had always eluded him; friendships only held value if the individuals involved were clever enough to accept his boundaries and proved themselves useful.

Many had speculated that Oliver's stubborn and peculiar nature would naturally incline him towards the Dark Lord's cause. But that assumption couldn't have been more mistaken. Oliver Harrington found no resonance with the twisted ideologies of the Dark Lord, for he himself had been born a Muggle. And even if the circumstances had been different, he would never have contented himself with being just another lowly Death Eater, tasked with endless, menial patrols. No, Oliver believed he was destined for far greater things.

Though the position he currently occupied wasn't quite what he had envisioned, it still held its own appeal. Leading his own small resistance group was but the first step on a ladder he fully intended to climb—perhaps one day ascending to the leadership of the entire Order of the Phoenix. Of course, that would likely involve removing a few obstacles along the way, but those thoughts were not for today.

Today, his focus was pulled elsewhere. It wasn't the wind howling through the trees, stirring the leaves and underbrush, nor the relentless rain that battered down on their hideout, creating a symphony of ominous reassurance.

No, what had truly captured his attention were the two young adults who had stumbled into his hideout, as though it were their own.

As the two figures stumbled into the clearing, Oliver Harrington's sharp eyes narrowed. His group, already on edge due to the storm and the constant threat of discovery, reacted with practiced precision. In an instant, wands were drawn, and every member of the resistance pointed their tips at the newcomers, ready to strike at the slightest hint of danger.

Oliver remained still, observing the pair as they caught their breath. The first, a young man with dark curls that clung to his forehead in the damp, immediately positioned himself in front of the woman. There was a ferocity in his stance, his wand gripped tightly in his hand, poised to defend. His eyes, a deep and unsettling shade of brown, scanned the area with a predatory intensity. It was clear to Oliver that this was someone who was accustomed to danger, someone who had seen and perhaps even caused a great deal of pain. There was something about the way he held himself, a subtle but unmistakable air of command, as if he was used to taking charge, used to being obeyed.

The woman behind him, though slightly obscured by his protective stance, was no less intriguing. Her dark hair was wet, clinging to her face and neck, framing sharp, intelligent features. Her eyes, however, were what caught Oliver's attention most. They were bright, almost unnaturally so, with a depth that hinted at power. Real power. She too held her wand at the ready, but her posture was more measured, more calculating. She didn't seem afraid, but rather watchful, as if she were waiting for the exact moment to strike if it came to that. Yet, there was something in the way she allowed the man to stand in front of her, something that spoke of trust, of a bond forged in fire.

Oliver's mind worked quickly, analyzing every detail, every movement. They were young, younger than most who survived long in these times, but there was a hardness to them, a resolve that belied their age. And then there was the way they moved together, as if they were two parts of the same whole, each instinctively knowing the other's next move. It was clear they were more than just allies; they were partners in every sense of the word.