Lennon McCauley – Aboard the Hogwarts Express
The compartment was wrapped in a tentative quiet—the kind that settles between three people too polite to admit how nervous they really are.
The train had been moving for half an hour. Outside, the gray city had melted into green hills and winding rivers. Lennon leaned her head against the window, watching it all blur by. Her hand rested lightly on her wand, as if touching it could steady the storm inside her chest.
"So," Hermione piped up, sitting like she was already answering questions in class, "do either of you know any spells yet?"
Neville looked startled. "I tried a growing charm once. On a cactus. It, uh… exploded."
Hermione's eyes lit up. "Improper wand pressure or wood mismatch! What's your wand made of?"
"Cherry," Neville said, a bit sheepishly. "It was my dad's. Gran says it still remembers him."
Lennon glanced over. "Mine's willow. Eleven inches. My dad took me to Ollivander's. He wouldn't stop saying, 'Let the wand choose you,' like it was some ancient prophecy."
"It is an ancient ritual," Hermione said seriously.
Before Lennon could respond, the door to their compartment slid open.
A kind-faced witch peeked in. "Has anyone seen a toad? Neville's lost his."
Neville's face turned pink. "Still no sign?"
She shook her head. "We're asking everyone."
"I'll help look," Hermione offered instantly, already halfway into the corridor.
Lennon stood too. "I could use a walk."
Neville followed, grateful and flustered. "Thanks."
⸻
They moved down the corridor, opening compartment doors and crouching between trunks. The air shifted from compartment to compartment—sugar and owl feathers, parchment ink and nerves.
They passed two boys mid-conversation—one with messy black hair and round glasses, the other with red hair and a chocolate smudge on his nose.
Hermione strode forward confidently. "Excuse me—has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville lost his."
The redhead shrugged. "No toad. If it's smart, it's long gone by now."
The other boy offered a small, polite smile. "We'll keep an eye out."
Lennon tilted her head. "You're Harry Potter, aren't you?"
The boy blinked. "Uh—yeah. I guess I am."
Ron stared. "How'd you know that?"
Lennon shrugged. "Heard it in my living room. Or read it somewhere. My dad works at the Ministry."
Harry smiled, a bit awkwardly. "Nice to meet you."
"Lennon," she said, offering her hand.
"Harry."
"Ron," the redhead added, already chewing something new from the trolley cart.
"I'm Hermione Granger," the girl said, standing tall. "And this is Neville."
They all exchanged greetings, and for a brief moment, the strange weight of starting over lifted.
"No sign of the toad?" Ron asked.
Neville shook his head. "He might not want to be found."
Lennon smiled. "Smart toad."
⸻
Mattheo Riddle – The Far End of the Train
Mattheo sat alone, his long legs stretched out, head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling.
He hadn't moved since the train pulled out of the station. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels was the only sound he welcomed—distant, steady, and unbothered by who he was. His trunk remained sealed. He hadn't touched the sweets trolley. He hadn't introduced himself to a single soul.
He wasn't here to make friends.
Outside his compartment, voices drifted by—students searching for a toad, someone whispering about Harry Potter. That name made his jaw tighten.
They called Harry the chosen one.
Mattheo hadn't been chosen.
He'd been left behind.
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, catching his reflection in the glass. His face was unreadable. Cold. Practiced. Morgana had made sure of that.
"Do not reveal what is still becoming," she'd once told him. "Power grows in the dark."
He hadn't understood then. But the words clung to him now.
The door slid open suddenly, and a small boy with round cheeks peeked in, apologetic.
"S-sorry—just checking for a toad. Didn't mean to bother you."
Mattheo didn't move. "No toad in here."
"Right. Thanks."
The boy disappeared before the tension could fully settle.
Mattheo leaned back again, letting the cool window press against his skull. His wand was still in his pocket, heavier than it had ever felt before.
He thought of Morgana's final words before the barrier.
"Do not trust easily—especially not kindness. Kindness hides weakness."
He was starting to believe her.
⸻
Lennon McCauley – Later That Afternoon
Back in their compartment, Lennon sat cross-legged, sifting through wizard cards. She'd bartered with a fourth-year—two peppermint toads for a chocolate frog and a full deck. Hermione watched with fascination.
Neville fidgeted near the window, turning a cracked Remembrall over in his hands like it might reveal something.
"I saw Harry again," Hermione said casually. "He's nicer than I expected."
Lennon nodded. "Famous doesn't always mean arrogant."
Hermione looked at her. "You seem… used to all this."
Lennon hesitated. "I grew up around it. Ministry life. Spell talk at dinner. But being around it isn't the same as belonging in it. I'm still figuring that part out."
Neville glanced up. "My gran says our family has a legacy. But I don't know if I'm part of it."
Lennon looked at him, her voice soft. "Maybe you're not meant to follow it. Maybe you're meant to start it."
Neville blinked, caught between confusion and hope.
Hermione leaned toward the corridor. "I heard someone say 'Riddle' earlier."
Lennon stilled. "As in… Tom Riddle?"
Hermione nodded slowly. "Do you think he has family?"
Neville paled. "He's supposed to be gone."
Lennon didn't answer right away. But something in her gut tightened—a deep, cold tug.
She'd felt that kind of magic before. Not just powerful—but wrong.
And she was certain: whoever carried that name hadn't stayed in the past.
They were here.
⸻
Mattheo Riddle – Still Watching
He heard them.
His name—Riddle—spoken just beyond the door.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed in slow.
This was how Morgana had trained him: stillness, silence, control.
Let them speak. Let them guess. Let them wonder.
Because shadows don't chase the light.
They wait for it to come to them.