The noise at Platform 9¾ was louder than Lennon remembered. It buzzed with first-years shouting goodbyes, owls flapping from overstuffed cages, and parents giving last-minute reminders that would be ignored by dinner.
Lennon McCauley stood by the edge of the crowd, arms crossed, a crooked smile tugging at her lips as she watched a small boy with round glasses nearly crash through a trolley as he followed a red-haired family toward the train.
"So that's him, then," someone muttered near her. "Harry Potter."
Lennon raised an eyebrow. The boy didn't look legendary—just nervous. Maybe even a bit lost.
Third year now. She had the hang of things: don't get caught after curfew, never trust a trick from a Weasley twin, and whatever you do, avoid Filch's cat.
But something about this year felt different. It prickled on the back of her neck, like change was coming—and it wasn't just because she'd finally made the Gryffindor reserve team.
As she lugged her trunk toward the train, someone bumped her shoulder.
"Watch it," she said instinctively—then froze.
The boy who'd collided with her was tall for thirteen, with dark hair curling around his ears and grey eyes that could cut steel.
"Sorry," he said, smooth and cold.
She narrowed her eyes. "You're Riddle."
He nodded, emotionless.
Everyone knew the name. Everyone talked about the name. But Mattheo Riddle didn't talk back. He rarely spoke at all.
He walked on without another word, disappearing into the train.
Lennon shook her head, grabbed her trunk, and boarded.
—
The train ride was loud and chaotic, as usual. Third years swapped stories from summer and dared each other to nick snacks off the trolley without paying. Lennon found a seat with Angelina Johnson and the twins, Fred and George, who immediately tried to charm her pumpkin pasty into a frog.
"I swear, if this thing hops away again—" she said, batting George's wand hand away.
"You love us," Fred said, grinning.
"You're tolerable," Lennon replied, grinning right back.
At some point, she glanced down the corridor and spotted that same boy—Mattheo—sitting alone, his chin resting on his hand as the countryside rolled by.
He didn't look particularly dark or dangerous. Just… distant. Like he was already somewhere else.
—
By the time the train reached Hogsmeade Station, rain was falling in silver sheets. Hagrid was calling the first-years to the boats, his lantern swinging wildly as he beckoned them toward the lake.
Lennon and the others filed into the thestral-drawn carriages. She could see the shadows of the boats on the lake below as they climbed the winding road up to Hogwarts. Tiny lanterns floated across the water, and the spires of the castle pierced the mist like a crown.
It still gave her chills.
—
Inside the Great Hall, the candles floated as they always did, casting warm light over the long tables. The ceiling shimmered with clouds and lightning, matching the storm outside.
Lennon slipped into her usual seat near the middle of the Gryffindor table, next to Lee Jordan and across from the twins. Percy was already there, reading something even though dinner was moments away.
She looked toward the entrance just as Professor McGonagall led the line of wide-eyed first-years in. Harry Potter stood near the front, his glasses a little crooked, looking like he'd just realized the world was much bigger than he thought.
"Poor bloke," Fred whispered, leaning in. "Every eye in the room's on him."
"You'd think he grew a second head," George added.
"Still," Lennon said, watching him carefully, "he doesn't seem to mind it. Or maybe he's just good at pretending."
"Could be both," Angelina said.
The Sorting began.
"Hermione Granger."
The girl practically ran to the stool and was sorted into Gryffindor in record time.
"Ronald Weasley."
Another Weasley. Lennon leaned around to look. "That makes… what? Five of you now?"
Percy nodded proudly. "And Ginny will join next year."
When the Sorting Hat shouted "Gryffindor!" again, the table erupted in cheers.
Finally—
"Harry Potter."
Silence fell like a blanket. Lennon could feel the buzz under everyone's skin.
The Hat took its time, but finally declared "Gryffindor!" and the table exploded.
Fred and George whooped. Percy clapped like a proud father. Lennon just smiled to herself.
Somehow, she knew: this was the beginning of something big.
—
Dinner appeared in a blink—roast chicken, mashed potatoes, pumpkin juice. Lennon dug in, laughing at Fred's commentary on the Slytherin table and George's attempt to smuggle a meat pie into Percy's bag.
She was mid-bite when her gaze slid across the Hall again—drawn, as if pulled.
There he was.
Mattheo Riddle sat near the far end of the Slytherin table, back straight, face impassive. The students around him gave him space, like he carried a cold that might catch.
But he didn't seem bothered.
He met her eyes, just for a second, and she felt the breath catch in her throat.
She didn't look away.
Neither did he.
Not until a tall Slytherin boy whispered something in his ear and broke the moment.
"What're you staring at?" George asked, nudging her.
Lennon blinked. "Nothing."
He raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Looked like you were mentally hexing someone."
"Just memorizing a face."
Fred grinned. "That's either very Gryffindor or very scary."
She smirked, stabbing a carrot. "Maybe both."
—
Later that night, curled in the warmth of the Gryffindor common room, Lennon sat near the fire while the twins held court with a handful of new first-years, dazzling them with stories of pranks and Peeves.
Upstairs, Percy was already organizing his prefect notes, and Oliver Wood was lecturing some second-years on the importance of Quidditch training schedules.
Lennon didn't join in.
She sat with her legs curled up on the couch, staring into the fire—and thinking about a pair of steel-grey eyes.
Mattheo Riddle. That name wasn't supposed to belong to someone her age. Wasn't supposed to belong to anyone who looked like that—calm, thoughtful, almost… lonely.
But it did.
And something told her their paths weren't just going to cross.
They were going to collide.