The Hogwarts Express hissed and rumbled beneath the weight of returning students, luggage, and the weighty sighs of another year beginning. Most compartments were loud with chatter, laughter, and chaos.

Except one.

The Slytherin boys’ compartment was never loud.

Draco Malfoy leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, lazily flipping through the Daily Prophet. Blaise Zabini watched the snow blur past the window, legs stretched long, fingers tapping against his knee. Regulus Black, always sharper than his youth suggested, was polishing his wand with calculated precision. Lorenzo Berkshire and Theodore Nott were arguing quietly about whether McGonagall was more annoying than Snape. The debate had gone on for twenty minutes.

But beneath it all was something else—a subtle unease. The Riddle brothers were late. That alone was enough to make the air feel tight.

Mattheo Marvolo Riddle was never late. Neither was his older brother, Tom.

Especially not together.

Theodore’s brow furrowed. “Did Mattheo say anything to you, Draco?”

Draco scoffed. “Does he ever?”

“No owls, no word,” Regulus muttered, snapping his wand case shut. “It’s weird.”

They didn’t like weird.

Just then, the sliding doors of the compartment screeched open.

Every head turned.

And for the first time in the history of their group, they all stared.

There stood Tom Marvolo Riddle, tall, composed, expression unreadable as always. His dark eyes swept over them before dropping to the girl beside him—a girl. A Hufflepuff girl.

Her robes were a soft shade of yellow, perfectly pressed. She didn’t fidget. She didn’t even hesitate under their collective stare. Her eyes stayed on the floor as she stepped inside.

Behind her stood Mattheo.

Mattheo Riddle. Scarred knuckles. Fire in his veins. The boy who started fights before he could speak. And he was carrying a bag.

Not dragging it. Not floating it lazily with magic.

Actually holding it.

Like it mattered.

Like she mattered.

Tom’s hand remained on the girl's shoulder, guiding her inside. Not protectively—possessively. Like he’d done it a thousand times. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but his gaze was sharp as daggers when it passed over the others.

“This is our compartment,” Tom said flatly.

None of the boys moved. No one dared to question him.

“She sits with us now,” Mattheo added, voice rough but final.

Still, no explanation. No answers. Just… that.

The girl didn’t speak. She sat where Tom directed—beside him, across from Draco and Theodore. Mattheo dropped her bag gently beside her seat, then sat next to her, elbow resting on his knee, angled protectively toward her like a silent wall. His eyes flicked up, daring anyone to make a comment. No one did.

She glanced up once—just once—and met Lorenzo’s gaze. Calm. Unbothered. As if she knew exactly what kind of storm she was sitting in… and didn’t care.

Draco finally blinked. “She’s a Hufflepuff.”

Tom didn’t glance at him. “She’s a Riddle.”

And that was all it took.

The room fell completely still.

Riddle?

Another one?

How? Since when?

But the looks on the brothers' faces said one thing clearly: Don’t ask.

The train whistle screeched through the air again, louder this time. The boys sat in stunned silence as the compartment door slid shut behind them.

Seven Slytherin boys. One Hufflepuff girl.

And two Riddles flanking her like loyal shadows.

For the first time in a long time, Hogwarts was about to learn something new—

There was another Riddle.

And no one touched a Riddle.

Not without bleeding.