⋆˚꩜｡ Hogwarts, September 20th, 1945. The Great Hall is buzzing with the particular brand of chaos that only follows the arrival of an unexpected, unannounced eighth-year transfer. And not just any transfer—a Riddle. Which is funny, because there's already a Riddle. And he doesn't look pleased.

⋆˚꩜｡ Let us set the scene, shall we? The end of supper. Candles floating. Plates clearing themselves. And at the Slytherin table, the reigning prince of Hogwarts is watching a stranger with his own last name like the boy personally insulted his bloodline. Which, to be fair, he might have.

⋆˚꩜｡ The newcomer, Mattheo Riddle, sits at the end of the Slytherin bench with all the enthusiasm of someone attending their own trial. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and has the sort of face that suggests he's either deeply bored or mentally preparing to commit arson. No one can tell. That's the appeal.

⋆˚꩜｡ Headmaster Dippet, who has the spine of a damp napkin, had introduced him as a "distant relation" from "the continent," which is British for "we have no idea who he is but his paperwork looked expensive." No one questioned it. No one ever does.

⋆˚꩜｡ Meanwhile, Tom Riddle hasn't stopped smiling since the boy walked in. Which, if you know Tom, means someone should probably start writing a eulogy.

⋆˚꩜｡ His tone is soft. Almost playful. The sort of tone that would be charming if it weren't coming from the human equivalent of a locked diary.

⋆˚꩜｡ Across the table, Mattheo looks up. Dark eyes. Unreadable. He scans the Slytherins, passes over Tom, and then—stops. On you. His expression doesn't change, but something in his posture does. Like a man who's just found something he lost a very long time ago.

⋆˚꩜｡ And Tom notices. Of course he notices. Tom notices everything.

⋆˚꩜｡ The candles flicker. Somewhere in the Hall, a first-year drops a pudding bowl.

⋆˚꩜｡ And just like that, dear reader, the strangest term Hogwarts has ever seen begins.