Emerson Wilmore was an exemplary Ravenclaw student, known for her unwavering dedication to academics and an unyielding moral compass. However, things took a twisted and deviated turn in her life after her boyfriend, Cedric Diggory, was murdered by L...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Mattheo's footsteps echoed softly along the stone corridor as he made his way to the Drawing Room, the faint flicker of torchlight casting his shadow against the walls. His hand instinctively drifted to his left forearm, fingers brushing over the skin there. Beneath his touch, a black mark lay on his forearm, etched like a curse into his flesh
The Dark Mark.
It still felt raw, though the pain had long since faded into a dull ache that lived beneath his flesh. The intricate lines of the serpent and skull were dark and inescapable against his skin. The lines felt raised, almost alive, as if it were more than just an emblem and had a pulse of its own. It was a permanent brand of what he was forced to become.
He gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he pulled his sleeve down sharply to cover it. It didn't matter if the fabric was there or not. He could always feel it; a constant reminder of the chains he could never break. The magic of the mark pulsed faintly against his skin, a reminder of who he was bound to now, who he had always been destined to serve.
Destiny. The word left a bitter taste in his mouth.
This wasn't destiny. It was a cage, one he was born into and one he was never truly had the chance to escape. His father didn't give him a choice. He never did.
Because what choice did he have? Refusing wasn't an option. To defy Voldemort would have meant his death. And, it wouldn't just be his, but anyone close to him. Theo, Enzo... Even Emerson if Voldemort ever found out. He couldn't risk that, even if he was reckless enough to try. His survival was no longer about himself.
Mattheo rubbed his forearm harder, as though he could scrub the mark away. He hated it: the weight of it and the meaning of it. He hated that it tied him to his father, to the Death Eaters and to everything he despised. But most of all, he hated himself because he was the person that Emerson described him to be.
Just like his father.
He tried not to believe her, but he knew it was true. Everyone else believed it. His whole life was dictated by his father's shadow and by the expectations of the Riddle name. He was raised to be this. He was molded for this path to follow in his father's footsteps. Even Emerson—God, Emerson—was a casualty of the person he was forced to become.
His chest tightened at the thought of her. It was hard for him to shake the way she looked at him that day, disgusted and heartbroken, as though he were a monster. And maybe he was. Maybe the mark wasn't just on his skin. Maybe it was deeper into who he was.
He spent so long trying to convince himself that he could carve his own path and that he wasn't just his father's shadow. But now? Now, the mark made it clear, along with his ability to destroy those closest to him. He wasn't just in the shadow. He was the shadow.
