𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬||𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞

Edited chapter eleven

Mattheo stood in a fireplace, floo powder in his right hand. It had a grainy texture that poked his skin as he held it tightly. He had found a letter In between the stack of notebooks on his desk that morning. He instantly knew it was his father, he never received letters unless it was from him. He was being summoned to Malfoy Manor. He felt his hands shake as he gathered the courage to drop the floo powder, beads of sweat slowly dripping down his forehead causing an ash mark as he wiped them off. His breathing was ragged, he hadn't seen his father in over a year. Father, such an unfamiliar word, it left a rather unsettling feeling in his chest.

He took a deep breath in as he uttered the words "Malfoy manor" his hand dropped to his side as green flames engulfed his frame. He felt a burning sensation against his skin, his vision warped, images of London jumbled together and in a split second, the flames disappeared.

The air smelled of smoke and powdery mildew, his vision struggled to adjust to the new atmosphere. He stepped out of the fireplace, his school shoes squeaking against the freshly cleaned floors. His eyes darted around, trying to make out anyone in the darkness but was met with silence.

He stood in the main drawing room of Malfoy Manor, he knew the place like the back of his hand. He was practically raised there, the dark lord had assigned the task of his bastard son to Lucius and Narcissa. To watch over him and make sure he grows up to his fullest potential. Narcissa tried her best to accept him as her own but in truth, she was afraid of him. She was afraid of what would become of him.

His destiny was to become his father's right-hand man and that's exactly what he was becoming. Mattheo had been assigned the task of killing the Potter twins, getting close enough to them to gain their trust. The potters needed to consider him as a friend for his mission to work and Mattheo knew that, that's why he made sure the twins hated him.

Mattheo didn't want to face the same fate as his father, he didn't want to become the murderer he was expected to be. When the dark lord first discovered Matteo's Existence his instinct was to kill him. He had no need in the world for a son, no love nor care. He was simply a distraction that needed to be eliminated. That was until he realized he could use him to his advantage. He was going to mold Mattheo into the perfect soldier, every fiber of his being was going to be controlled to his liking. In Voldemort's eyes, Mattheo was simply an object that needed fixing. He wished Voldemort would've killed him that night of his birth, it was a better fate than becoming a weapon of destruction.

Mattheo suddenly felt a tingly sensation on his left forearm, he pulled his sleeve up to uncover his mark. It was more prominent than usual, the snake made its way around the skull. He felt hypnotized by it, a constant loop that couldn't be stopped. He was here. Mattheo froze, his posture rigid as his hand muscles flexed. He felt a pair of eyes scanning over him causing goosebumps on his skin to form. Slow-paced footsteps inched closer to Mattheo, each movement causing his anxiety to spike. He looked straight ahead, afraid of what he might face if his eyes moved even an inch.

The room stood still as Voldemort towered over his son. "Come closer" his throaty voice beckoned, Mattheo obeyed and stepped closer. His eyes were still set on a small peak of light that shone through the black curtains of the window up ahead. Without a beat Voldemort harshly grabbed Mattheo's face, holding him up. His hands were cold and slimy making Mattheo flinch. His nails dug deep into his cheek, sparking pain as blood dripped down his face. Voldemort raised his wand with his other hand, pointing it firmly against Mattheo's temple, the point causing searing pain. Mattheo tried escaping the harsh sensation but his father's firm grip held him in place.

Mattheo felt his eyes roll back as his father entered his mind. He groaned in pain feeling Voldemort carelessly scroll through his memories. Images of his childhood kept flashing by, each one inflicting more pain than the next. Years and years of his life being treated like nothing more than scum. That's all he was, scum.