The roar of a hundred new voices washed over T/n, a tide of nervous excitement and boisterous reunion. She stood with Hadrian, her twin, amidst the jostling crowd in the Hogwarts Entrance Hall. The air thrummed with magic, the scent of old stone and newly polished wood clinging to the high ceilings. Students flowed around them like a river, but the pressure T/n felt had little to do with the press of bodies.
It was the weight of their name, a familiar ache beneath her ribs. Potter. Every whisper, every glance that lingered a moment too long, was a reminder. The legacy wasn't just a story; it was a garment tailored for her, heavy with expectations.
Hadrian, ever the anchor, nudged her arm. His smile was easy, a bright contrast to her own tightening jaw. "Ready to face another year of adoring fans, T/n?"
She managed a weak smile in return. "More like another year of trying not to trip over my own feet and disgrace generations of heroism."
He laughed, a genuine, uncomplicated sound. "You worry too much. We're here. We're Potters. What's the worst that could happen?"
She didn't answer. A chill, unaccountable and sharp, traced its way down her spine. The old stone walls, usually a comfort, felt impossibly vast, holding secrets she didn't want to uncover. She gripped the strap of her bag, the worn leather a small, grounding presence in a world that felt suddenly too large.
Faces blurred past, a kaleidoscope of robes and eager expressions. Some students pointed, a few dared to wave, their eyes wide with recognition. T/n dipped her head slightly, acknowledging them without inviting further attention. She just wanted to disappear into the stream, to become another face in the crowd, but the name Potter was a beacon, impossible to dim.
She caught Hadrian's eye again, a silent plea for normalcy. He understood, his smile softening, and he drew her closer, a brotherly shield against the curious gazes. It was a comfort, a small warmth against the creeping unease she couldn't shake.
---
Professor McGonagall, her severe bun unyielding, ushered the first years through the massive oak doors of the Great Hall. T/n and Hadrian followed, joining the older students who were already finding their seats at the long House tables. The Hall was a breathtaking spectacle, as always, lit by thousands of floating candles, their flames dancing above the four long tables.
The enchanted ceiling mirrored the stormy twilight outside, a swirling canvas of bruised purples and greys. T/n felt a familiar sense of wonder, but it was quickly overshadowed by Hadrian’s sudden stillness beside her. He had stopped dead, his gaze fixed on a distant point.
“Hadrian?” she murmured, trying to follow his line of sight. Her twin’s usual casual posture had stiffened, his eyes narrowed.
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, barely audible above the rising hum of conversation. “Look. Third year table, Slytherin. To the left of Flint.”
T/n’s eyes scanned the sea of green and silver robes. It took her a moment to pinpoint him. He wasn't loud, wasn't drawing attention to himself, which made him stand out all the more. A boy sat at the very end of the Slytherin table, isolated, almost spectral amidst the boisterous cluster of his housemates.
He was lean, his posture rigidly straight, a dark figure carved against the flickering candlelight. His hair was black as midnight, falling forward to shadow a face that looked impossibly sharp, even from this distance. There was a stillness about him that was profoundly unsettling, as if the usual hustle and bustle of the Great Hall simply ceased to exist within his immediate vicinity.
A chilling tremor ran through T/n. It wasn’t the cold, but something far more insidious. He wasn’t just sitting there; he was a void, subtly absorbing the warmth and light from the ancient stones around him. His presence seemed to actively dispel the festive atmosphere, leaving a pocket of stark silence. This was Mattheo Riddle, a name whispered in hushed tones even in their own home.
“Riddle,” Hadrian breathed, a single word heavy with implied history, with warnings. A profound dread settled in T/n’s chest, a premonition that her carefully constructed world of duty and light was about to be irrevocably shattered. She couldn't tear her gaze away, fascinated and repelled in equal measure.
---
The plates clattered with the remnants of the Welcome Feast, and the chatter grew louder as students began to drift towards their common rooms. T/n felt a hand on her shoulder, firm but gentle. She turned to find Professor McGonagall, her expression uncharacteristically grave.
“Miss Potter, a moment, if you please,” McGonagall said, her voice a low murmur that somehow cut through the noise. Hadrian, sensing the shift, gave T/n a worried look before excusing himself to join Ron and Hermione.
T/n followed McGonagall away from the Gryffindor table, towards the shadowed archway leading to the staff entrance. The professor stopped, her back to the wall, her eyes scanning the dwindling crowd before returning to T/n.
“I saw you glancing towards the Slytherin table earlier,” McGonagall began, her spectacles glinting in the candlelight. Her voice was hushed, almost conspiratorial. “Towards young Mr. Riddle.”
T/n’s heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. “Yes, Professor. Hadrian pointed him out.”
McGonagall sighed, a soft, weary sound. “The Riddles are… a complicated legacy, T/n. His father was a brilliant, if misguided, wizard. And his grandfather… well, the name alone carries a certain weight. A shadow.” She paused, choosing her words with care.
“He’s not his family, Professor,” T/n offered, trying to sound reasonable, though her own unease flared at the mention of the name. It felt hollow even to her own ears.
“Perhaps not, dear. But apples rarely fall far from the tree, particularly when the root is as deeply entrenched as theirs.” McGonagall’s gaze held a deep concern, her brow furrowed. “I ask you, T/n, to exercise caution. Your family, your name, it represents something important here. Something bright. There are those who resent that light.”
T/n nodded, the weight of her family’s legacy pressing down again, heavier than before. The professor’s words only served to confirm the profound dread that had taken root the moment she saw Mattheo Riddle. It wasn't just a name; it was a warning.
“I understand, Professor,” T/n said, her voice quiet. The conversation, though brief, left a lingering chill, a sense of foreboding that promised more than just caution would be needed.
---
The Sorting Ceremony began, a familiar annual ritual, but T/n found herself struggling to focus. The Sorting Hat’s jaunty songs, the booming names, the nervous first-years shuffling forward – it all passed in a hazy blur. Every time the Great Hall fell silent for a new name, T/n’s skin prickled, a distinct sensation of being watched.
She tried to ignore it, to focus on the small, anxious faces of the eleven-year-olds. A tiny blonde girl burst into tears as the Hat deliberated, and T/n almost smiled, but the feeling intensified, a cold spot between her shoulder blades that radiated outwards.
He was still there. Even without looking, T/n knew. Mattheo Riddle. His presence was a static charge in the air, pulling at her attention, making it impossible to fully relax. She kept her head angled towards the staff table, pretending deep interest in Professor Dumbledore’s long, silver beard.
When her own name, Potter, had been called four years ago, the entire Hall had erupted in applause even before the Hat touched her head. It was a moment of dizzying pride and suffocating expectation. She wondered if Mattheo Riddle had experienced anything similar, or if his reception had been met with a more chilling silence, a different kind of burden.
A Hufflepuff first-year, round-faced and beaming, skipped off the stool to cheers. T/n risked a quick, furtive glance towards the Slytherin table. He hadn't moved. He was still in the same position, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his face unreadable. But his eyes, even from this distance, felt like a physical touch.
They were fixed on her. The prickle on her skin turned into a shiver, a cold trickle down her spine that had nothing to do with the draft from the enchanted ceiling. It was a gaze that didn't just see; it weighed, it assessed, it challenged. She quickly averted her eyes, feeling exposed and profoundly uncomfortable. The ceremony dragged on, each name a pause in the relentless pressure of his attention.
---
Finally, the last first-year, a tiny boy named Abernathy, had been sorted into Ravenclaw. Dumbledore rose, his arms outstretched, a warm, reassuring presence. But the warmth he offered felt distant, almost irrelevant, to the chill that had settled deep within T/n.
She felt drawn to look again, a moth to a dangerous flame. Her head turned slowly, almost against her will. The Great Hall was now a cacophony of chatter as dessert appeared on the tables, but for T/n, everything seemed to fade into a muffled background hum.
Her eyes found him. Mattheo Riddle. He was no longer a spectral figure in her peripheral vision. He was real, solid, and his gaze was unwavering. Across the vast expanse of the Great Hall, past the hundreds of students, the floating candles, the House banners – their eyes met.
His were the color of a winter storm, deep grey, bordering on black, and utterly devoid of warmth. There was no curiosity in them, no anger, only a chilling, ancient sort of knowing. A silent challenge pulsed between them, a dangerous current she felt pulling her in.
Then, a slow, almost imperceptible shift. A corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. A chilling, almost predatory smile flitted across Mattheo Riddle’s lips as his eyes, the color of a winter storm, locked onto T/n’s, and she felt an inexplicable pull, a dangerous current she couldn’t ignore.