The Black Lake – Arrival
The night was cool and damp, the kind of cold that curled into your bones. Mist clung to the air as the train screeched to a halt, hissing steam across the platform. Lennon McCauley stepped off with her trunk and a tight grip on her cloak, boots crunching gravel beneath her.
She was finally here.
Hogwarts.
"Firs' years! This way, firs' years!" bellowed a voice that seemed made of thunder and kindness in equal measure.
A massive figure stood beyond the fog, lantern in one hand, smile buried beneath a beard that could've housed a family of puffskeins. He waved them forward like a gentle storm cloud.
"That's Hagrid," whispered Hermione, practically vibrating beside Lennon. "He's the Keeper of Keys and Grounds. He took Harry shopping in Diagon Alley!"
Lennon nodded silently, following the stream of first-years toward the cliff's edge. A dark lake stretched out below them like a mirror turned to the sky. Moored along the rocky shore were dozens of small boats.
"No more'n four to a boat!" Hagrid called, already helping some of the smaller students in.
Lennon clambered into one with Hermione, Neville (who looked half seasick already), and a boy named Dean Thomas. As the boats began to glide forward across the still, black water, no one spoke for a long moment.
Then—there it was.
Hogwarts.
The castle loomed high on the cliffside, its turrets lit with golden torchlight, mist clinging to its stone shoulders like a cloak. Windows flickered like eyes watching their approach. It was ancient and alive, humming with centuries of secrets.
Lennon's breath caught in her throat.
The grief she usually carried like a second skin dulled, just for a moment. Her mother was gone. Her father was a ghost in her life. But this place—this strange, magical fortress—it felt like it had been waiting for her.
She tightened her fingers around the edge of the boat.
This was it.
She had arrived.
⸻
Mattheo Riddle – Shadow on the Water
Mattheo sat alone in his boat, hands folded in his lap. He hadn't asked for solitude; it had been given the moment someone looked into his eyes.
The other boy—tall, nervous, freckles—had started to step in. Then paused. And stepped back.
Good.
Mattheo preferred the silence.
The boat glided forward like a thought drifting across a dream. The lake was calm, the castle growing larger with every passing second.
Hogwarts.
Where his father had once walked.
Where the name Riddle had meant fear and power and ambition gone to rot.
Now it meant something else. A threat. A legacy.
His jaw tightened as his mother's voice echoed in his mind, clipped and cold: "You will rise to their expectations, or you will break them."
He wasn't here for glory.
He was here to understand what came before him—and decide whether to burn it or reshape it.
⸻
Before the Sorting
The first-years disembarked at a hidden dock and followed Hagrid up a winding stone path, boots echoing along the wet steps. At the castle doors, towering and ancient, Hagrid knocked three times.
The doors creaked open to reveal a grand entrance hall with ceilings high enough to fit the entire Dursley house—twice. Torches lined the walls, flickering against stone. Suits of armor stood at attention.
Then a sharp voice rang out:
"Welcome to Hogwarts."
Professor McGonagall stood near the top of the stairs, robes crisp, her expression unreadable behind her square spectacles.
She addressed the crowd of wide-eyed children like a general before a battle.
"In a few moments, you will pass through these doors and be sorted into your Houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony. While you are here, your House will be like your family."
Lennon glanced sideways. Neville was sweating. Hermione looked ready to burst from anticipation.
McGonagall continued, "The four Houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Your triumphs will earn your House points. Any rule-breaking, and you will lose points. At the end of the year, the House with the most points will win the House Cup."
Someone near the back burped nervously.
Before McGonagall could speak again, a shriek rose from the crowd.
"Trevor!" Neville cried, diving toward the ground.
A squat, slimy toad hopped out from under someone's shoe. Lennon stepped aside just in time, watching Neville clutch the creature to his chest like it was a newborn.
McGonagall raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Then—
"Harry Potter, is it?"
The group turned. A pale, pointed boy with slicked blond hair stepped out, flanked by two hulking companions.
"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said smoothly, hand extended.
Harry looked at it, then at Draco's sneer.
"I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself," Harry replied coolly.
Lennon watched the exchange with interest.
So that was Harry Potter.
And that—that—was Malfoy.
McGonagall returned a moment later and led them down the hall. Double doors opened slowly into the most stunning room Lennon had ever seen.
The Great Hall.
Hundreds of floating candles hovered in midair. The ceiling had been enchanted to mirror the night sky, complete with drifting clouds and moonlight. Four long tables stretched the length of the room, filled with older students already sorted and seated beneath their house banners.
At the front of the room stood a single stool.
And on it—a shabby, battered wizard's hat.
⸻
The Sorting Ceremony
Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a long scroll.
"When I call your name, you will come forward and sit on the stool to be sorted."
The room hushed.
"Abbott, Hannah!"
A nervous-looking girl approached. The Hat barely touched her head before shouting, "HUFFLEPUFF!"
The Hufflepuff table erupted in applause.
One by one, students were called forward.
"Granger, Hermione!"
Hermione all but sprinted to the stool. The Hat took a moment to debate, then declared, "GRYFFINDOR!"
Hermione beamed and skipped off to her new table.
"Longbottom, Neville!"
Neville stumbled forward, nearly dropping Trevor again. The Hat hesitated, mumbling about bravery and self-doubt, before finally shouting, "GRYFFINDOR!"
He looked like he might faint from relief.
"Malfoy, Draco!"
The Hat had barely touched his hair before it yelled, "SLYTHERIN!"
Draco strutted to the green-and-silver table like he already owned the castle.
Then—
"Riddle, Mattheo."
The room went still.
Mattheo walked slowly, deliberately. He sat like a prince stepping into a quiet war.
The Hat paused longer this time.
"Ohhh… difficult. Very difficult. You have darkness, yes. Control. Intelligence. But not cruelty. Not yet."
Mattheo said nothing.
"You'd do well in Slytherin. You crave understanding. Power. You hide your fire well."
The pause stretched.
"Yes. Better be… SLYTHERIN!"
The word cracked through the air. Applause followed, though it felt more careful. More curious than celebratory.
Mattheo walked to the far edge of the table and sat, alone.
⸻
Lennon's Turn
"McCauley, Lennon."
Silence again. Her boots echoed as she stepped forward. Whispers rippled across the room. Some knew the name. Her father's past was hard to outrun.
She sat on the stool, hands folded in her lap.
The Sorting Hat slid down over her eyes.
"Ohhh. What's this? Fire wrapped in quiet grief. Sharp mind. Fierce loyalty. But you hate being told what to do."
Lennon smiled slightly.
"You'd burn bright in Gryffindor. You'd find stillness in Ravenclaw. But oh… you don't want power. You want truth. You want to matter—for your own reasons."
A beat passed.
"Very well then. Better be… GRYFFINDOR!"
Cheers. Real ones this time. She walked to the table with a steady step and sat beside Hermione. Harry gave her a small nod.
Across the room, Mattheo's eyes met hers.
She nodded once.
He returned it.
Recognition. No more, no less.
⸻
Final Sortings
"Thomas, Dean." → Gryffindor.
"Zabini, Blaise." → Slytherin.
And then—
"Potter, Harry."
The Great Hall fell deathly quiet.
Harry walked to the stool, sat down, and the Hat pulled over his head.
"Hmm. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind, either. Difficult. Very difficult. You could be great in Slytherin…"
"Not Slytherin," Harry whispered. "Not Slytherin."
"Are you sure? You could do well…"
"Not Slytherin."
"…Well then. Better be… GRYFFINDOR!"
The explosion of cheers was deafening.
Harry stumbled to the Gryffindor table, red-faced but smiling. He sat across from Lennon. She gave him a small smile. He looked like someone who had just survived a duel.
"Ronald Weasley!"
The Hat barely grazed his head before shouting, "GRYFFINDOR!"
Ron collapsed next to Harry and began piling food onto his plate before he was even seated properly.
⸻
Mattheo – Watching
The feast began in an explosion of magic—platters appearing, goblets filling, laughter erupting.
But Mattheo didn't eat.
He watched.
He watched Harry laugh at something Ron said. Watched Hermione lean close to Lennon. Watched Lennon, quiet but certain, as if she'd already decided who she would become in this place.
He didn't hate any of them.
But he didn't envy them, either.
His hunger lived elsewhere.
And it would not be fed at this table.