Bound By Blood.

ch.84~Fought the fight.

There were no recovered or unsent correspondents

found from Order Member Alexandra Brooks, to Death Eater Mattheo Riddle

from February 2004, to April 2004.

Riddle Manor, 2004.

Mattheo.

I was conditioned young.

To fighting, to blood, to death.

I was taught that is what makes you strong. That nothing else matters besides the fear you instill in others. And with out that fear, you have no power. That above all, power overcomes anything else. That without power, you are as good as dead.

So no, killing, didn't bother me.

Blood, hasn't made me queasy since I was a boy.

Death, at times felt like a friend.

But killing Sirius... that was different.

Killing him in the literal sense meant nothing.

It was superficial, a win for my father's side, the Death Eaters, for me.

But killing him meant hurting her. Directly hurting her and that thought cut deeper than any blade ever could.

When my father commanded the act, asking for more blood, I felt my stomach turn.

The feeling was foreign to me, a messy cocktail of regret and dread rising in my throat. His casual dismissal of life felt monstrous, when it used to feel second nature. And with that dismissal came the weight of accountability that I had never known I was capable of carrying.

"That's what I expect from you, boy," my father sneered. "Clean up this mess. We need to send a clear message."

He called for Draco and Blaise to join him in the dungeons, instructing them to deliver the 'package' to the Order.

Each name twisted within me like a knife.

Draco and Blaise, were now part of this bitter betrayal.

"Why them?" I managed to ask.

"Because now they will know where she lives. You know, which means Theo knows. And we all know Enzo knows. You've played your part well, but now you can no longer hide her," he summed up with a chilling finality.

Feeling excused, I turned on my heel and rushed up the stairs.

Past the ballroom, guests were screaming, counting down the seconds to midnight, but their joy was like a distant echo compared to the storm brewing within me.

The moment felt surreal, a painful blur as I yanked at my tie, gasping for breath.

I stumbled into my room, collapsing over the toilet as waves of nausea crashed over me.

This wasn't from the act of killing Sirius, or from the blood that stained my hands, or the spatters on my face and clothes—this was for something far worse.

For picturing her face as she opened the door tonight, only to be confronted with the sight of my gift to her: his head in a box.

In a fucking box.

The images flashed violently in my mind as sickness clawed at my insides.

Images of her.

Always fucking of her.