War, Love, and Riddle //Mattheo Riddle x OC

Chapter One - Welcome To Hogwarts, Potter

People step sideways when Mattheo Riddle walks a corridor. It's muscle memory for them by now the turn of a shoulder, the hitch of a breath. He's used to it. Tom Riddle's son invites a certain kind of silence.

What most of them ignore because it ruins the story they prefer, is that he's exceptional. Top of year in Arithmancy and Runes. Uncanny wand control. Potion work that made Snape go glassy-eyed. He captains strategy like a chessboard is printed behind his eyes. Head Boy because no one else could keep Slytherin in line without bloodshed. Professors who don't like him still cite his essays. Professors who do like him keep it quiet.

The Golden Trio decided in first year that "Riddle" meant guilty. Since then, every corridor mishap, every rumor, every shadow that moved in the wrong direction lands at his feet. He doesn't hate them; hate takes energy. He hates the assumption. He hates that they've never once tested their thesis with a conversation.

He refuses to call his father "Voldemort." It's petty, he knows that. It also makes the man's mouth go thin, and sometimes small victories are oxygen. He's spent a lifetime sitting in the shadow of plans, listening from stairwells, from the landing outside a study door that never quite latched, while a silk-slick voice carved futures out of other people's lives. None of that makes him loyal. It just makes him tired.

The only people who matter are at the Slytherin table, Draco, Theo, Enzo, Pansy, Blaise..... a ring of familiar shoulders and louder laughter, the safe kind where you can keep your back to the door.

The Great Hall hums. Candles float like small moons, dripping wax that never lands. The ceiling is a bruise of late-summer clouds, and the smell is roast beef, treacle, parchment dust. Something is off tonight, the air prickles, like static before lightning. Sixth year and he is already done. He wants NEWTs over with, a clean piece of parchment where his name and his father's don't share ink.

Dumbledore rises, and hush falls neat as a sheet.

"It is my pleasure to announce a new student joining our hallowed halls," he says, eyes bright as if he knows a joke no one else does. "She comes to us from Beauxbatons Academy, joining our sixth years. An extraordinary witch who, I believe, will do great things here."

The doors groan open.

She walks in and the room tilts.

Raven-black hair spilling like ink, chin high, hands laced at her waist the way Beauxbatons drills into you...... elegance weaponized. Light-green eyes that don't blink enough for a girl who knows a thousand strangers are measuring her hem. Full mouth. And there, nearly hidden under a sweep of fringe something shaped like a memory of lightning.

"Please welcome, Emma Potter."

The name crashes through the hall harder than any spell. Spoons clatter. Whispers leap from table to table. 

Another Potter? 

Somewhere to his right, Theo drawls, "Don't care what house. She's fit." 

Draco, without missing a beat, "Gryffindor. Obviously." 

And Pansy, delighted, "Oh, this is going to be fun." 

But no. She isn't just fit, Mattheo thought. She's a blade wrapped in velvet. 

Her hips swayed a touch more than she intended, the motion betraying nerves she fought to conceal. Still, her steps were elegant, every line of her posture a product of years at Beauxbatons, where grace was drilled into her as second nature. Her fingers laced neatly in front of her as she crossed the hall, chin lifted just enough to suggest poise.

She felt their eyes.
Boys watching, their gazes climbing the length of her, drinking her in as if she were something placed on display. Girls glaring, their envy sharpened into whispers and side-long looks. Each stare pricked at her like needles, a constant reminder that she was no longer surrounded by the warmth of her chosen family back at Beauxbatons.