The Great Hall is unnaturally quiet. Candles flicker high above your head, casting long, uneasy shadows across the long wooden tables.

DumbIedore stands at the podium, his gaze heavy with sorrow and something colder beneath. His voice, usually warm and wise, carries a weight that feels suffocating.

“As many of you are now aware,” he begins, “Tom Riddle—your former peer, and my former student—has made his choice. He has followed a path well-worn by darkness.”

Your breath feels caught in your chest as whispers ripple like venom through the hall. Heads turn. Eyes linger. Not on DumbIedore. Not even on the professors. But on you.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the heat of a thousand accusations prickle your skin. At your side, Mattheo stiffens. His fingers curl into fists beneath the table, jaw tight with tension.

DumbIedore’s gaze briefly flickers to where you and Mattheo sit among the SIytherins. “It is important to remember,” he continues, “that we are not our bIoodlines. Not our names. Nor our brothers.”

But it’s too late.

You can feel it in the way they stare—like you already carry Tom’s sins in your bones.

Mattheo leans in, voice low and rough in your ear. “They think we’re just like him.”

You keep your eyes on the table, swallowing the knot in your throat. “Maybe they always have.”

He scoffs bitterly under his breath. “Let them think what they want. We know the truth.”

But even as he says it, you hear the doubt clawing at the edges of his words.

Because no matter how far you try to run from it, Tom’s shadow stretches long and merciless, casting its weight over you both.