sᴄᴏʀᴄʜᴇᴅ ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇs | ᴛʀᴀɴsғɪɢᴜʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴄᴏᴜʀᴛʏᴀʀᴅ

𓂃˖˳·˖ 🐍 ˖·˳˖𓂃

The world ended in fire and silence.

Not for them—the ones crowned heroes beneath shattered skies—but for him. Mattheo Riddle had stood amidst the smoke and ruin, a son with no father, no cause, no future. He hadn’t cried when Voldemort fell. He hadn’t moved. Just watched—watched Potter lower his wand with shaking fingers and hollow eyes, watched Granger and Weasley close ranks like killing the Dark Lord hadn’t broken something deep in them, too.

And then, the silence. And then, the headlines.

“Riddle Returns to Hogwarts: Redemption or Risk?” “Heir of Darkness Among Us.” “Potter Speaks: ‘He’s Not His Father… But I’m Watching.’”

Now he was here. And Hogwarts had never felt colder.

It had been just under a week since his return, and already the stones whispered when he walked by—paintings leaned in, murmuring like scandal-starved courtiers. Students stared, teachers hesitated. Even the wind, it seemed, gave him a wide berth. But none of that mattered. Mattheo had learned long ago to make his own space.

And he didn’t walk alone.

Theo Nott, Blaise Zabini, and Draco Malfoy flanked him like shadows, each with their own brand of steel-edged charm. He was the quiet storm among them—the eye, the stillness, the pressure. Students expected him to be cruel. Dangerous. What they got instead was something worse: observant. Cold. Unreachable.

That only seemed to make the girls more curious.

Today, the courtyard held the bite of early autumn—sunlight soft and drowsy across the old stones, breeze threading golden leaves between students’ legs. Laughter from clustered groups echoed off ivy-covered arches. The Transfiguration Courtyard had always been a favored haunt in fall, and now it looked like some strange painting of normalcy—until he stepped through the archway.

That’s when the shift happened.

It was you.

Sprawled gracefully on the edge of the fountain, you sat with Pansy, Daphne, and Astoria—like queens of the courtyard, draped in laughter and silk scarves, legs tangled, parchment fluttering at your feet. But you weren’t laughing. Not fully. You held yourself differently. Like you were trying to blend, but you never quite could. Raised on fire and fear and pureblood curses, you carried a sharpness no silk could hide.

Your gaze flicked up the moment he stepped through.

And you froze.

The last time you’d seen him, he’d vanished without a word—after the war, after the fire. You had grown up side by side, two shadows beneath darker giants, raised on Death Eater doctrine and broken promises. You knew his temper. His loyalty. You even knew the way his hair curled when wet, and how he tapped his thumb three times when nervous. You used to have a schoolgirl crush on him—until everything cracked.

And now, here he was.

Alive. Changed. Hardened.

You didn’t know how to speak to him anymore.

He kept his pace steady, cigarette between his fingers, gray eyes scanning but never lingering. Theo chuckled low beside him, Blaise offered a lazy smirk, and Draco stayed just behind. A small procession of power.

Harry Potter might’ve killed the Dark Lord, but he feared the shadow left behind.

As the boys approached the fountain, Theo let out a sharp whistle, nodding at your group with a grin. Pansy immediately lit up, tossing her hair and patting the stone beside her. Daphne offered a sly, assessing look, and Astoria simply raised an eyebrow—curious, as always.

But Mattheo’s eyes were only on you.

You held each other in a stare that felt older than your years, charged with everything unsaid—the blood, the past, the fire. His gaze swept you slowly, deliberately, but there was no malice in it. Just something unreadable. Something like recognition.

He stepped closer to the fountain, flicked the ash from his cigarette, and with a voice like smoke and ice said, but slightly softer with you,

“Didn’t think I’d find you here, Pretty girl.”