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...
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The dungeon was colder than usual, the flickering torchlight casting jagged shadows across the stone walls. Mattheo stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the desk. His posture was relaxed but his mind anything but. His dark eyes were locked on the professor's pale face, gauging every movement and flicker of expression.
"Again," Snape commanded, his voice smooth and cold. "Focus, Riddle. Legilimency requires precision. A wandering mind will achieve nothing but failure, and I expect more from you."
Mattheo exhaled sharply through his nose, biting back a retort. He wasn't in the mood to be lectured, but he knew better than to let his irritation show too much. Snape had little patience for insolence, even from someone like him.
"Are you ready?" Snape's tone was calm but clipped, his dark eyes glinting as they fixed on Mattheo.
Mattheo straightened, brushing a hand through his dark curls with feigned disinterest. "Let's get on with it," He said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "Wouldn't want to waste any more of my precious time."
Snape's lips curled into a thin, unimpressed line. "I wasn't aware that being summoned by the Dark Lord to assist you left room for such arrogance. Your father would do well to remind you of the importance of Legilimency."
At the mention of his father, Mattheo's jaw tightened. His father; the man who could carve secrets from anyone's mind with the ease of slicing butter. The man who made it abundantly clear that Mattheo must learn to do the same. It wasn't enough to be a skilled duelist or a cunning strategist; Voldemort wanted him to be his shadow, a weapon sharpened to perfection. His second in command, cut from the same unforgiving cloth.
Legilimency wasn't just a skill his father wanted him to master, it was a requirement.
What Voldemort didn't understand, or perhaps didn't care about, was how draining it was. Mattheo wasn't his father. He wasn't sure he wanted to be.
"Right," Mattheo muttered, pushing aside his irritation. "Let's get this over with, then."
Snape stepped closer, his wand raised. "Prepare yourself. Legilimens."
Mattheo felt the familiar sensation of pressure, like invisible fingers pressing against his temples, seeking entry. He clenched his jaw, letting Snape's presence scrape at the edges of his consciousness and allowing him a glimpse. He opened up the flicker of an unimportant memory from earlier in the day, the sound of Enzo laughing at breakfast. He had learned to let the intrusion linger for a moment before pushing back, allowing Snape just enough access to think he'd made progress. Then, as Snape pressed deeper, Mattheo's defenses snapped into place like steel doors slamming shut.
"Impressive," Snape's voice was laced with a grudging respect as he lowered his wand. "As always. You have a natural aptitude for this, no doubt inherited from your father."
