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“Father was dead. But he wasn't.
That still man back in the mannor wasn't Father. Father was somewhere else—maybe causing havoc, or killing Harry Potter, or just being a lord. I'd go home and walk by the others, and Father would be barking orders, and maybe we'd lie on our backs and watch the stars.
He isn't dead, I said to myself. He isn't dead. And this time my dreaming worked. I convinced myself that he wasn't dead.”
Mattheo's body remained unmoving, sitting next to the death eaters, they looked so imposing to his eyes, dressed in all black his father once had. He was only seven. He hadn't seen his father since he was a year old; no one told him what happened, why or where he had gone, just one day his father was gone. “What's go on?” He asked, voice soft and low with the innocence of childhood. None of the death eaters visibly reacted, a few hushing him, but not out right action. Mattheo sighed, his hand resting on his left palm. “But I'm bored. You're all so boring.” That earned him an eye twitch.
“I'm telling Mama you're not watching me.”
All eyes snapped to him; Bellatrix would not be pleased to hear he was unsupervised, even if he wasn't, it was his word against theirs. He was Voldemort's heir, the Dark Lord's legacy and the only known Riddle to be alive. “Shhh, don't tell your mother lies.” one of the death eaters tried coax, voice like rough stone.