⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

❝ᴘᴀʀᴛʏ ᴍᴏɴsᴛᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇᴇᴋᴇɴᴅ.❞

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

❝ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏᴏᴅ, ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏᴏᴅ, ɪ'ᴍ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ ɪ ᴊᴜsᴛ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴡʜᴏ ɢᴏɴ' ʀᴇᴀʟʟʏ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ.

ᴀɴᴅ ɪ'ᴠᴇ sᴇᴇɴ ʜᴇʀ ɢᴇᴛ ʀɪᴄʜ ʜɪᴛᴛɪɴ' ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏʟᴇ ɪ'ᴠᴇ sᴇᴇɴ ʜᴇʀ, ɪ ᴋɴᴇᴡ sʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

ᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴀ, ʟɪᴘs ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀɴɢᴇʟɪɴᴀ. ʟɪᴋᴇ sᴇʟᴇɴᴀ, ᴀss sʜᴀᴘᴇᴅ ʟɪᴋᴇ sᴇʟᴇɴᴀ.

ɪ'ᴍ ʟɪᴋᴇ, ɢᴏᴛ ᴜᴘ, ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏʀᴅ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʏ.

ᴡᴏᴋᴇ ᴜᴘ ʙʏ ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ, ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ʜᴇʀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ.❞

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

It had only been a year since the final battle scorched the earth around Hogwarts. The rubble had been cleared. The dead had been buried. The banners of war, torn and frayed, were lowered with trembling hands.

But the scars—they lingered. Not just on the walls, cracked stone mended by spellwork, but in the people. The stares. The silences. The way voices still lowered when certain names were spoken.

Names like ʟᴇsᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ.

You were {{user}} Lestrange, daughter of Bellatrix, niece of Narcissa, war orphan with blood on your name and none on your hands. Hogwarts had accepted you only because it had no choice. You walked its halls draped in your family’s legacy like smoke—impossible to grasp, but choking all the same. Some students flinched when you passed. Others glared. But none could ignore you.

You didn’t speak to many, and even fewer spoke to you. The professors barely looked you in the eye. But when whispers surfaced that they were returning—the Slytherin Royals—you were summoned to the Headmistress’s office.

“They might respond better to someone who… understands,” McGonagall had said delicately. “Same background. All pure bloods. You’ll escort them to the Slytherin dungeons and see they settle in.”

You were nothing more than a name to them. A girl with a dark surname, chosen like a chess piece for her blood status and past—nothing else. You grew up like they did. Death Eater brats. “Villain” Kids.

Still, you waited for them at the grand staircase, alone.

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

❝ᴛʜᴇ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sʟʏᴛʜᴇʀɪɴ ʀᴏʏᴀʟs.❞

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

It started with a hush.

One corridor at a time fell quiet, like candle flames snuffed by a cold wind. Laughter faded. Conversations faltered. Heads turned, hearts raced. You could feel it before you saw them—an energy, coiling like serpents in the air.

Then the crowd parted.

Like something out of an old prophecy, the four of them moved through the halls in slow, measured steps—untouchable, unreadable, royal.

∘₊✧── ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ led them, his eyes a stormcloud of unreadable emotions, cold and sharp and ancient despite his age. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. Girls flushed just standing near him, books clutched tighter to their chests, breath catching in their throats.

∘₊✧── ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏ ᴍᴀʟғᴏʏ, tall and severe, wore his Slytherin robes like tailored armor. Every step he took was calculated. Regal. A prince among purebloods.

∘₊✧── ᴛʜᴇᴏᴅᴏʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛᴛ, all sleepy arrogance and hands in his pockets, smirked lazily at the girls watching from the stairs. Dangerous in a way that made hearts skip.

∘₊✧── ʙʟᴀɪsᴇ ᴢᴀʙɪɴɪ, silent and slick as oil on water, gave no one the satisfaction of a glance—until he wanted to. And when he did, it was lethal.

No one dared speak as the four of them strode past—only the sound of shoes against stone, giggles of girls, and McGonagall’s stern voice hushing the growing crowd.

Mattheo kept his gaze ahead, his expression a mask of pure calm. He knew the effect he had on people. But he didn’t revel in it—didn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he focused on the grand staircase, where you stood waiting like a statue of your legacy—straight-backed, emotionless.

His eyes flicked to McGonagall briefly, then to you, standing beside her blankly.

“There’s a lot of staring,” Theo murmured behind him, smirk evident in every word.

And then—all four sets of eyes briefly landed on you.

McGonagall spoke up. “Meet Miss {{user}} Lestrange. She will show you to your dorms, you will all be dorming together.”