It was only the second week of term, and Lennon already had her name scribbled on Filch's detention list. Twice.
The first was technically an accident. She'd tried to hex a Slytherin boy for charming her ink bottle to leak during Charms, but the spell rebounded and hit Professor Flitwick's wig instead, dyeing it bright purple. Flitwick had laughed. Filch had not.
The second offense involved a dungbomb and a faulty staircase, both of which, according to Fred and George, had been "only partially her fault." And yet, when Filch caught them red-handed, only Lennon had been slow enough to get caught. Again.
It wasn't that she went looking for trouble. Trouble just had a magnetic attraction to her. It stuck to her like spell residue, or the glittery remnants of a failed charm. And sometimes, it came in the form of dark-haired Slytherins with far too much mystery in their eyes.
She hadn't spoken to Mattheo Riddle since the train ride. But she'd noticed him. Everyone noticed him. There was a quiet, calculated air about him. He was always two steps away from the center of any crowd, like he was studying it. He rarely smiled. He rarely needed to.
In Potions, he worked alone.
In Transfiguration, he was three pages ahead in the textbook.
And in Defense Against the Dark Arts, he corrected the professor's pronunciation of a counter-curse—without being asked.
Snape, of course, adored him.
"A promising young man," he had said once, glancing pointedly toward Lennon. "Unlike some others who think wandwork is a substitute for discipline."
Lennon had almost hexed the wall.
---
She was sitting at the Gryffindor table at breakfast, buttering a slice of toast with unnecessary force, when Fred dropped a folded bit of parchment in front of her.
"Careful," he said. "You're going to saw the toast in half."
"Snape gave me another zero," she muttered.
"You did call him a cave-dwelling bat in front of half the class," George added helpfully.
"I mumbled it."
Fred nudged the parchment toward her. "Here. To cheer you up."
She opened it.
It was a detailed map of Filch's "secret" shortcut routes and patrol times.
"Brilliant," she grinned. "I'll add it to my collection."
"Oh, no," Angelina said, sliding into the seat beside her. "What did you do *now*?"
"I haven't done it *yet*."
"That's worse."
---
It was during that same week that she found herself in detention—again.
It was a Thursday evening. Rain pelted the windows like tiny fists. She'd been assigned to scrub cauldrons in the dungeons. By hand. With no magic. Classic Filch.
She grumbled the whole way down.
The classroom was damp and smelled like old toadstools. A single lantern flickered in the corner, throwing shadows against the stone walls. She rolled up her sleeves, picked up the first rust-stained cauldron, and reached for the rag—
—only to find someone already standing there.
Mattheo Riddle.
He glanced up from the cauldron he'd been silently scrubbing, his sleeves already rolled, his expression unreadable.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, with a vague shrug, he gestured to the pile beside him. "Plenty to go around."
Lennon set her jaw, walked over, and began to scrub.
For a while, there was only the sound of steel wool scraping iron and the low drip of water from a cracked ceiling tile. She could feel his presence beside her. Calm. Efficient. Methodical.
She tried not to notice the quiet way he worked. Tried not to admire how he never seemed rushed, or rattled, or bored. He just *was*.
After ten minutes, she couldn't take the silence anymore.
"What are you in for?"
He didn't pause. "Someone said I hexed a portrait."
"Did you?"
"No."
She glanced at him. "Did you *want* to?"
A faint curl of his lips. "Maybe."
She let out a quiet laugh. "Well, that's something."
They worked in near-peace after that, side by side, two silhouettes in the half-light of a dungeon detention.
Eventually, she said, "People talk about you, you know."
Mattheo didn't look up. "People talk about anything they don't understand."
"You're not exactly trying to be understood."
He paused then, scrubbing motion stilled, and turned to meet her eyes. His gaze was sharper up close. Curious. Calculating. But not unkind.
"Neither are you," he said.
She blinked.
Mattheo stood, dried his hands on a towel, and without another word, walked out of the room.
She watched him go.
And for the first time since arriving that year, Lennon McCauley didn't feel quite so alone in her own skin.
---
The next week, they were partnered in Potions.
Snape, ever the sadist, read the pairings with a faint sneer. Lennon was nearly sure he did it on purpose.
"McCauley and Riddle. Try not to blow up my classroom."
She slid onto the stool beside Mattheo and muttered, "If we blow it up, it's his fault."
Mattheo didn't respond. But she swore she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
As they prepared the Shrinking Solution, Lennon found herself watching him work. He was precise. Efficient. Focused. It was... infuriatingly attractive.
"Pass me the daisy roots," he said softly.
She did.
Their hands brushed.
Neither of them said anything.
---
By mid-October, they had an unspoken routine. They didn't sit together in class, but always worked side-by-side if partnered. They didn't talk much, but when they did, it was sharp and fast and a little dangerous.
Sometimes, they passed in the corridor and barely nodded.
Other times, they locked eyes across the Great Hall, saying everything and nothing in a glance.
She didn't tell Fred or George.
He didn't tell anyone at all.
And on the nights when she couldn't sleep, she wondered if maybe he watched the stars the same way she did—quietly, and alone, and wishing he could belong without having to explain himself.
Because in all her years at Hogwarts, she'd never met anyone who felt like a secret.
Until Mattheo Riddle.
---