Mattheo Riddle – Riddle Manor
Riddle Manor breathed a silence so deep it felt almost alive — a silence untouched by joy or laughter.
Its long halls echoed only with the sharp tap of Morgana Rosier's heels, slicing through the marble floors like a whispered warning. The portraits lining the walls were frozen in time, trapped behind ancient magic forgotten even by the Rosiers. Shadows gathered in the corners like thick cobwebs, watching without blinking.
In his bedroom, Mattheo stood before a mirror lit only by a single enchanted candle, its flame steady and unwavering. His school robes lay folded over a chair behind him — black, crisp, untouched. He hadn't worn them yet. He wasn't ready to step into a role he didn't know how to fill.
His fingers fidgeted at his shirt's collar, itchy and confining.
"You're not dressed," a cold voice said from the doorway.
No anger. No warmth. Just cold.
Morgana Rosier entered, a dark cloud in human form. Draped in mourning robes of black silk and silver lace, her hair braided tightly like a whip, her pale gray eyes forever narrowed in quiet judgment.
"I am," Mattheo said, voice low.
"Not in uniform."
"I have time."
"No," she replied, fingers brushing over the folded robes. "You don't."
Her tone was not cruel, but it held the weight of unyielding expectation. Morgana's voice never rose; her silence was harsher than any shout. Once, people said she had been beautiful — perhaps she still was, beneath the shadow of war and loss that had drained every trace of softness from her.
Reluctantly, Mattheo pulled the robes over his shirt. Morgana's hands, precise and firm, adjusted his collar.
"Stand still," she commanded. "You carry our name. The Riddles are gone, but the Rosiers remain. You'll be watched."
"I didn't ask for this name," he whispered.
"You were born into it." With a sharp tug, she fastened his cloak's clasp. "Do not squander it."
Mattheo searched her face for a hint of motherly kindness. Found nothing. No smile. No warmth. Only the cold shadow of duty.
"When I get to Hogwarts…" he began.
Morgana raised an eyebrow.
He swallowed. "Will you write?"
"Do you need letters?" she asked, like a professor marking attendance.
He looked away. "No."
"Then don't ask for what you don't need."
Her words wrapped around him like a noose.
They left the manor without another word.
⸻
King's Cross Station
The station buzzed with life—Muggles rushing in all directions, suitcases rolling, children pulling at parents' hands. Morgana moved through it all as though none of it existed.
Mattheo followed, dragging his trunk, its wheels clattering on the stone platform. His wand stayed hidden in his pocket — forbidden for now, but Morgana had made him carry it every day for weeks.
"You go through alone," she said, nodding toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten.
"What if I—"
"If you're truly a wizard," she interrupted, "you'll get through."
He looked back at her.
"Goodbye," he said, testing the word.
She didn't reply.
Instead, her cloak billowed like dark wings as she turned and walked away.
Mattheo stepped forward and ran toward the barrier.
⸻
Lennon McCauley – Camden Town, London
The kettle hissed quietly. Lennon packed her trunk with a rush that didn't match the morning calm. The flat above the apothecary was small but alive — a strange harmony between Ministry order and domestic chaos. Books lined the walls: spell theory, dueling manuals, magical law, and worn detective novels her father adored.
Declan McCauley stood near the window, sipping coffee in neat gray robes, pretending not to watch.
"You pack like it's a race."
Lennon smiled without looking. "Feels like one."
"Scared?"
"Not scared. Just… ready, I think."
He came closer, resting a steady, calloused hand on her shoulder. She leaned into it.
"You'll be brilliant," he said quietly, like it was fact.
She closed her trunk with a soft thud. "Do you think she'd say that too?"
A long silence.
Declan's hand dropped. "Yeah. She would."
Maeve Callahan's face lingered in photos above the fireplace and in Lennon's worn Transfiguration book — a Ministry legend who vanished on a mission years ago, leaving no trace.
People stopped asking. Not because they didn't care — because Declan made sure no one forgot.
Lennon tucked a curl behind her ear. "Do you think she's really gone?"
"I don't know," Declan said, voice tight. "I thought I did once."
She searched his face for what he wouldn't say. He never cried around her, but sometimes, late at night, she heard the soft click of a pensieve vial spinning alone in the living room.
They never talked about it.
"I packed your tooth polish," he said, shifting the mood. "Extra parchment. And your jacket — Scotland's colder than you think."
"You're fussing."
He snorted. "I've earned the right."
Fifteen minutes later, they left the flat. Lennon's wand was a secret in her pocket; Declan levitated her trunk ahead as they walked to the Floo station.
"First year at Hogwarts," he said by the green-tiled fireplace. "Make friends. Don't duel anyone before week three."
"No promises," she grinned.
His smile nearly broke her heart.
"Try not to break the rules."
"I'm your daughter."
He gave her a dry look. "Exactly."
⸻
They emerged into King's Cross's crush of morning commuters, moving like shadows. Declan's hand hovered near his wand, ever alert. Passersby recognized him from the Daily Prophet or courtrooms — some nodded respectfully, others turned away.
He ignored them all.
They stopped at the barrier. Lennon stared.
"Just walk through?" she whispered.
"Fast. Confident. You're a witch."
He looked at her, softening. "I'm proud of you, Lennie."
Caught off guard, she blinked. He showed pride not often in words — through wand lessons, tough conversations about the war, and always coming home.
"Thanks, Dad," she said, hugging him tightly.
He squeezed back. "If anything feels wrong — you write. Immediately."
"I will."
They separated. She grasped her trolley.
"See you at Christmas," he said. "Or maybe before."
With a breath, Lennon ran toward the barrier.
⸻
The world shifted.
Platform 9¾ blossomed before her like a secret. The scarlet train steamed and sighed, students laughing, parents bidding goodbye. Owls screeched, cats darted.
She hoisted her trunk onto the train and peered inside compartments. Students chatted, swapped sweets, some shy, some confident.
She spotted a compartment where two others sat quietly.
One boy fiddled nervously with his robes, hair tousled as if he'd just run a hand through it. A girl with wild curly hair and bright eyes looked up and smiled warmly.
"Hi," Lennon said softly, pushing the door open. "Is this seat taken?"
"No," the girl replied, returning the smile. "Please, come in."
The boy nodded, shy but friendly.
"I'm Hermione," the girl said.
"Neville," the boy added.
"Lennon," she said, sitting opposite.
They shared a quiet moment — the train's hum, platform chatter fading away.
Hermione broke the silence. "Are you nervous? I'm terrified."
Lennon laughed softly. "Yeah, but mostly excited. I want to learn everything."
Neville's eyes brightened. "My gran says Hogwarts is the best place for magic. She tells stories about creatures and spells."
"Same," Lennon said, fingers tapping her robes. "My dad's an Auror. He says it's dangerous, but it's where I can be me."
Hermione's eyes widened. "An Auror's daughter? That's amazing! My parents are dentists, but I want to be a great witch."
Neville smiled, less nervous now. "I hope we get sorted into the same house."
"Me too," Lennon said. "Though I hear the Sorting Hat can surprise you."
"It does," Hermione grinned. "But wherever you end up, you make it yours."
The train lurched forward, wheels rattling softly.
The three settled into an easy silence — the start of something new.
For the first time since leaving home, Lennon felt she might not be alone.