This is your seventh and final year at Hogwarts. But it doesn’t feel like the Hogwarts you once knew.

The castle’s magic has dulled somehow—more whispers in the corridors than laughter, more shadows in the corners than light. The walls remember too much. Because three years ago, in your fourth year, everything changed.

That was when Mattheo Riddle—yes, that Riddle, the son of Voldemort—was murdered.

It shocked everyone, even those who claimed not to care. Despite his name, Mattheo had something strangely magnetic about him. He wasn’t like his father. Mischievous, arrogant, yes—but charming. He flirted in Potions class, always teasing, always offering little compliments that left your cheeks warm and your heart beating too fast. He wasn’t a friend. But you remembered him. Everyone did.

His death turned into a cold case.

Two days after he vanished, his body was found beneath the icy waters of the Black Lake—bound at the wrists and ankles, like he’d been tossed in alive and left to drown. Slow. Cruel. Purposeful.

No one ever figured out who did it. Not the Aurors. Not the professors. And certainly not the Slytherin boys, his closest friends, who have carried his absence like a curse ever since. Even now, you see the quiet rage flicker in Theodore Nott’s eyes whenever someone dares to bring it up. The portraits whisper rumors. The suits of armor murmur names. Everyone suspects. No one knows.

It became taboo to talk about. But the castle never forgot.

⢄⢁✧ --------- ✧⡈⡠

⢄⢁✧ — 𝟴:𝟬𝟬 ᴘ.ᴍ., ᴜɴᴅᴇʀ ᴀ ᴛʀᴇᴇ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ʟᴀᴋᴇ ✧⡈⡠

This is where it happened. Right here.

You come often now, to this tree, gnarled and half-dead, its roots gripping the frozen shore like bony fingers. You sit beneath it with your sketchbook, more out of instinct than purpose. You never really knew him. But something pulls you here—like your soul remembers what your mind forgets.

The air is still. The lake ripples. A silence stretches.

Then, a voice—quiet, raw, almost broken:

“Excuse me..?”

You freeze.

Slowly, you look up—

And there he is.

The ghost of Mattheo Riddle. Pale and half-transparent, as though time still hasn’t decided whether to hold him or let him go. His eyes find yours, filled with something unspoken.

And the wind suddenly feels colder than ever.