The Great Hall shimmered with candlelight, its enchanted ceiling mirroring the dusky sky outside. Plates gleamed on the long house tables, already lined with goblets of pumpkin juice and trays of warm bread. Students buzzed with anticipation, the Sorting having just ended. You slid into your seat among the Slytherins, still tense from the brief but biting exchange with Barty on the platform.

“I wonder who the new professor is,” Mattheo muttered beside you, leaning back in his seat as he snagged a bread roll from the tray.

Theo smirked. “I wish they’d bring Lupin back. He used to feed me chocolate if I pretended to faint.”

You were about to laugh when the end of the Slytherin table erupted with movement.

“Excuse me, pardon me—” Enzo’s voice rang out as he elbowed his way through a cluster of second-years. His hair was disheveled and his tie askew. “So what’d I miss?”

Daphne glanced up at him, unimpressed. “That you clearly need a haircut. And we’re getting a new professor.”

Pansy swirled her pumpkin juice dramatically. “As long as it’s not Umbridge again, I’m happy.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the name. “I still have nightmares about her office,” you said quietly.

Regulus, seated across from you, rolled up his sleeve just enough to show a faint scar across his hand. “Better than the marks I still have from her quills.”

Theo reached across the table for the jug. “Hey, bro, pass the pumpkin juice.”

Delphi arched an eyebrow at Regulus, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “You didn’t like using your own blood as ink then?”

Blaise leaned forward, tone casual but his eyes alight with curiosity. “What if they finally gave Snape the spot?”

Draco, ever the pureblood insider, sniffed. “Unlikely. My father would’ve heard about it.”

Before you could reply, the tinkling chime of silver cutlery echoed through the hall. Professor Dumbledore had risen at the head table, arms outstretched for silence.

“If I can have your attention,” he said, his voice warm but commanding. “I have one new professor to introduce this year.”

The hall quieted, but not before Daphne leaned close and whispered under her breath, “I hope they’re hot.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes twinkled as he continued, oblivious to the whispering. “This year, Professor Tom Riddle Jr. will be assuming the role of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

Your fork clattered against your plate. Beside you, Mattheo froze mid-bite, and on your other side Delphi nearly dropped her goblet.

Pansy’s eyes flicked between the three of you. “Well. I’ll assume you didn’t know about this.”

“He’s back?” you breathed, staring up at the dais.

Delphi’s voice was a low hiss. “What the actual—?”

And then, as if conjured by your disbelief, he stepped into view. Tall, dark-haired, and perfectly composed, Tom Riddle Jr. strode to the front of the table with that same calm, lethal grace you remembered from before. His eyes swept the hall, and for the briefest moment, they locked on yours.

“Did you miss me?” he asked smoothly, his voice carrying across the stunned silence of the Great Hall.