Bound By Blood.

ch.33~ Dark Paradise.

"I don't know where the darkness ends, and I begin. 

But I think I prefer it this way. Even though I know you wouldn't. 

Five years since you left. This is how I cope. 

Who knew your death would make for such a good leader." 

Recovered undelivered correspondents between Death Eater Mattheo Riddle, to Order Member Alexandra Brooks, dated somewhere between 2000-2001.

Riddle Manor, 2003. 

Mattheo.

I think the part of these "galas" that annoy me so much, is the fucking people. 

The talking. 

The conversating about our tactic's and our next moves. 

As if I didn't do it all, already. 

As if I didn't take over most of the continent by age twenty three. As if I didn't eliminate, if not convert more than half of the remaining order members. As if I didn't do this all, mostly my self. 

As if it isn't enough. 

Assholes. 

I shouldn't have to answer to them. And truthfully, I often don't. 

Because I owe no one an explanation, because I only answer to my self. 

The sooner they realize this, is the sooner I get some fucking peace. 

And yet here they stand, oblivious, giddy in their ignorance, unaware that I am the architect of battles fought in the shadows. 

They hold their glasses high, toasting to futures built on the sacrifices I made while they fostered hope and naïveté in hearts untested by true darkness.

Toasting to the anniversary of the war. 

Our first major success. 

My biggest downfall.

With every chuckle around me, I can feel an old rage bubbling just beneath the surface. 

What do they know of true sacrifice? 

What do they understand of the weight of every life taken, every bond severed? 

Fucking nothing. 

But I do.

Suddenly, I catch a familiar figure weaving through the crowd, cutting through the inane chatter and forced laughter like a knife through butter. 

His mask can't hide him, not from me. 

Theo, in his all-black dress suit—an unintentional mirror of the other Death Eaters surrounding us. 

In his tailored attire, he looks fittingly dapper, but the childish glimmer that once danced in his eyes is gone, replaced by a sharp clarity that feels almost foreign.

He hasn't aged a day in my memory, but there's a new grit about him, an edge sharpened by experiences that have hardened even the softest of souls. 

I can sense the tension coiling in the air as he nears.

"Matt," he greets me, his voice low but steady, cutting through the noise, clinking his glass to mine. "There's been no report of interruptions or break-ins. Everything is going as planned."