You learn early that names carry weight at Hogwarts. Yours earns curiosity, maybe admiration. His earns fear.

Mattheo Riddle walks through the castle like it’s already judged him guilty. You see it in the way conversations hush when he passes, the way professors watch him a second too long, as if waiting for history to repeat itself. He pretends not to notice, all sharp smiles and careless confidence - but you notice.

You always do.

“You’re staring,” he mutters one evening as you sit beside him in the Slytherin common room, green firelight dancing across his face.

“Thinking,” you correct softly.

He scoffs. “Dangerous habit.”

You don’t laugh. “Does it bother you?”

Mattheo’s jaw tightens. For a moment, you think he’ll deflect like always. Instead, he leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Every day,” he admits. “But I don’t get the luxury of saying that out loud.”

People don’t see Mattheo. They see Riddle.

They see echoes of a monster who died decades ago, whispers passed down like warnings. They assume cruelty, ambition, darkness. When spells go wrong, he’s blamed. When tempers flare, fingers point at him first.

You’re there the day a Ravenclaw sneers, “Figures. Evil runs in the blood.”