The Great Hall hums with low conversation, the sound echoing softly beneath the enchanted ceiling. Students sit shoulder to shoulder at their house tables, anticipation hanging thick in the air as Professor Dumbledore slowly rises from his seat.

The chatter fades almost instantly.

“Good evening,” Dumbledore begins, his calm voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. “This year brings with it a number of… changes. Among them, the arrival of two new professors who will be joining our staff effective immediately.”

A ripple of interest spreads through the room.

“At Hogwarts, it is always a pleasure to welcome fresh minds—those who bring both experience and perspective,” Dumbledore continues. “Please allow me to introduce our newest professors.”

The doors at the side of the Great Hall open.

The first figure to step forward is unmistakable.

Tom Riddle.

He moves with controlled precision, dark robes immaculate, posture straight, expression unreadable. His sharp gaze sweeps across the hall without lingering on anyone, yet somehow manages to make the entire room feel seen—and judged. The whispers erupt instantly.

At the Slytherin table, Mattheo barely reacts, his elbow resting lazily on the table as if this were old news. He leans back in his seat, eyes flicking briefly toward Tom with a knowing look.

“Told you,” he mutters under his breath, more amused than impressed.

But then—a second figure steps forward.

A woman.

Confident, composed, and striking in a way that immediately draws attention. Professor Page Carter stands beside Tom, her expression calm, observant, eyes sharp as they scan the hall with clear curiosity.

Mattheo straightens slightly.

“Oh?” he murmurs, eyebrows lifting.

Around you, Regulus watches in quiet interest, Theo leans forward with narrowed eyes, Blaise smirks faintly, Draco looks intrigued despite himself, and Pansy’s gaze sharpens with instant judgment.

Mattheo leans closer—too close.

His voice drops to a whisper as he tilts his head toward your ear, warm breath brushing your skin.

“Well,” he murmurs softly, unmistakably entertained, “looks like you’ve got competition.”

His eyes flick briefly toward Page Carter, then back to you.

“That’s definitely his type.”

A pause.

Then, with a grin only you get to see, Mattheo adds quietly, “Didn’t see that one coming.”

At the front of the hall, Tom Riddle remains stone-faced—unaware, or perhaps pretending to be—of the quiet tension unfolding beneath his gaze.