𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐬𝐞 - 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐨 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞

fourteen

MATTHEO
"you found me when I thought I was dying."
•❅───✦───❅•

WHEN MATTHEO RIDDLE was brought into this world, there was a thunderstorm.

A thunderstorm so severe, his mother, a talented witch named Maria, was more rattled by the fact the prison she had been in was practically shaking at its foundation than the fact she was giving birth in an old, rickety room. Nobody there to help her.

She had been trapped in that room for 37 days before she had him, different deatheaters coming in three times a day to give her food, water, whatever else she may have needed. But just enough to keep her alive. Nothing more, nothing less.

As demanded by Lord Voldemort, the moment she had Mattheo, he was taken from her. Ripped away to be examined by the Lord, to determine if he had sired the perfect heir. Once it was indeed confirmed the baby was a male, he had brought him back to his mother. Said nothing to the only woman that ever foolishly loved him. And then left them there.

She only knew her son for the amount of time he needed her, for the amount of time it took until he was able to feed himself, walk himself, use the bathroom on his own. The moment he was independent enough, he never saw his mother again.

Mattheo was a smart child given the circumstances, granted he wasn't able to speak much. Mostly out of choice. He wanted the people who he had grown to call "those in black" to think he was stupid, to think he couldn't even formulate real sentences. So he learned to speak in Riddles, which was fitting for his last name.

He didn't remember the day he finally escaped much. He remembered waking up particularly ill, due to an infection of an open wound that lie on his stomach. But he also remembered waking up to an old man, one with a white beard, and an old woman with a quizzical aura about her standing above him. The woman had tears in her eyes, the man had a solemn expression that eight year old Mattheo could not comprehend.

But still, he remembered being terrified. Terrified because he had been made to believe at such a young age that he could not trust anybody.

Eventually, he grew to trust Minerva Mcgonaggle. He trusted her because she was empathetic, because she visited him at least twice a week when he was moved to an orphanage not too far from her home, because she taught him how to read, how to write, how to do most of the mundane things normal children don't realize could be a luxury.

She need not explain to him who his father was. His place in the world. He had already known. Already known loyal servants to him obeyed his wish to keep him alive. Not because his father cared, but because he wanted a dynasty. A dynasty of rulers who thought, acted and felt just as he did.

Luckily, he never got the chance to be truly indoctrinated. Although, he always had a darkness to him other children didn't have. A tendency to be violent, angry, cold, and silent.

He worked hard for only three years, learning to read, write and speak to others in proper conversation in record time. What took others a decade to learn, he had learned in less than half that time. Granted, Minerva was inclined to use magic and spells to help him out a little, but he still felt that he had accomplished a lot. Still felt he was better than most, still relished in the fact people feared him just because of who he was; as it gave him immunity to ever needing to be around people for as long as possible.