The corridor outside the dungeons is already crowded when it happens.

You’re standing with them like you always do—Tom at your left, Mattheo at your right, the Slytherin boys loosely arrayed around you like a wall made of sharp smiles and dark reputations. Draco leans against the stone, Theo’s arms are crossed, Blaise and Enzo murmuring to each other, Regulus watching everything with that unreadable stare.

And still.

Someone laughs.

It’s careless. Loud. Too confident.

A seventh-year from another house—older, taller, clearly convinced the rules bend around him—steps forward, eyes skimming over the group before landing on you. He doesn’t look scared. Not of you, anyway.

“Well,” he says, smirking, “I see the Riddles brought their little sister to play guard dog.”

The air shifts.

Mattheo’s jaw tightens instantly. Tom doesn’t move at all, which is worse. The boys straighten, tension coiling, but before anyone can speak—

You step forward.

Just one step. Calm. Controlled.

“Say that again,” you tell him.

He blinks, surprised you spoke at all. “Relax. I’m just saying—everyone knows the Riddles are dangerous. But you?” He shrugs. “You’re just… the youngest. A girl. I doubt you’re—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Because the magic hits him.

It isn’t loud. It isn’t flashy.

It’s pressure.

The corridor seems to bow inward as your magic unfurls—dark, ancient, unmistakably Riddle. The torches flicker violently, shadows stretching and twisting along the walls. His breath catches as an invisible force pins him in place, feet lifting an inch off the ground.

You don’t raise your voice.

You don’t even raise your wand.

“You confuse quiet with weak,” you say evenly. “And youth with mercy.”

His eyes widen now. Fear finally catching up.

“I am not dangerous because I’m my brothers’ sister,” you continue, stepping closer, your presence alone making him tremble. “They are feared because they are Riddles.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“So am I.”

The pressure increases just enough to make the lesson unforgettable—then you release him. He stumbles back, gasping, barely catching himself before he falls.

No one laughs.

Behind you, Draco lets out a low whistle. Theo’s mouth curves into a grin. Blaise looks impressed. Enzo mutters, “Remind me never to get on her bad side.” Regulus’s eyes linger on you, something like respect settling there.

Mattheo exhales slowly, pride flickering across his face before he masks it. “Told you,” he says flatly to no one in particular.

Tom finally speaks.

Cold. Final.

“If you ever address my sister like that again,” he tells the boy, “you won’t walk away next time.”

The boy doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even look at you again.

He leaves.

When the corridor empties, you turn back to the group like nothing happened.

Mattheo smirks. “You didn’t have to be that terrifying.”

Tom’s gaze rests on you, something unreadable behind his eyes. “Actually,” he says quietly, “she did.”

And for the first time, you realize something important—

You were never underestimated because you weren’t powerful.

You were underestimated because no one survived long enough to talk about it.